


Grand Design

by moonlighten, Nekoian



Series: Grand Design [1]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-30
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:57:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 94,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonlighten/pseuds/moonlighten, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nekoian/pseuds/Nekoian
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>December, 2012: Scotland and Scotland are having one of those days where they just don't feel like themselves and things only get worse from there...</p><p>This series crosses over moonlighten and nekoian's fic universes, and includes both sets of their respective British brothers and Irelands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
Scotland wakes with a jolt, his ears ringing and legs shaking, as though he's just fallen from a great height and the shock of the impact is still reverberating through his body. He sucks down a deep gulp of air in an attempt to loosen the panicky tightness constricting his chest, and reaches out one hand towards France, to calm the racing of his heart.  
  
There's nothing at the other side of the bed but crumpled duvet and cool sheets beneath.  
  
"What the fuck?" he mutters, dragging his sleep-heavy body up a little way to rest on crooked elbows.  
  
His bedroom is nothing but a jumble of indistinct, twilight-hued shadows, none of which look even vaguely France-shaped, and the only sound is his own laboured breathing. France usually sleeps deep and sound from the moment his head hits the pillow to some ungodly hour far too close to noon for Scotland's liking when he stays over, and a sharp prickle of unease creeps across Scotland's scalp, pulling the skin there uncomfortably tight. France might still have been roused by a bad dream – it's impossible to live as long as they have, to see the sorts of things they've seen, and not be troubled by the odd nightmare every so often – and yet…  
  
And yet his absence feels weightier, the house emptier, in a way Scotland can sense somehow but not even begin to explain.  
  
He calls out, "France?" and then waits for a moment, ears straining for a reply.  
  
He hears nothing but the muted ticking of some distant clock.  
  
Shivering slightly, and resolutely not thinking about second thoughts or his own sudden realisation in the early hours of a morning a couple of years ago – they'd both made promises, and he trusts France well enough now to keep them; he does – Scotland stumbles out of bed and heads for the nearest light switch.  
  
It takes him a moment of fumbling, palms sliding across the wall, to find it in the dark, because it seems to have moved a little to the right and down a fair few inches. Which must be a trick of a tired mind and unsteady hands, surely, as light switches aren't exactly notorious for their nocturnal wanderings, or, at least, not as far as Scotland's aware.  
  
When the light flickers into life, however, it quickly becomes clear that the switch isn't the only thing that's changed.  
  
All Scotland can conclude, rather dazedly, is that someone must have broken in, kidnapped France, and redecorated his bedroom on their way out. They must be masters of their game, too, as they'd accomplished it all without disturbing the _uruisg_ , judging by the lack of outraged screeching, and even managed to change Scotland's fucking duvet cover without waking him, swapping out the green stripy one he'd fallen asleep under for a dark blue number.  
  
Which, on reflection, is a bloody ridiculous idea, and prompts Scotland to take a closer look at his surroundings to try and find some sort of clue which might explain what the hell's going on.  
  
The room definitely isn't one of his brother's, so it seems doubtful that some overprotective bastard's taken it upon himself to send their minds for a sojourn in each other's bodies again (and besides, his body feels like his, not tight and constrictive and too damn short like Wales' had done), but it's not quite his own, either.  
  
His geological collection is exactly where it should be, carefully arranged by age and type on his windowsill when he twitches aside the curtains. (France insists that they look like they've just been thrown down haphazardly, but then France can't classify rocks for shite, despite Scotland's best efforts.) And the little chair in the corner that's too small to serve any better purpose is still home to his day's discarded clothes, although France must have decided against folding them, after all, even though Scotland distinctly remembers him complaining about having to do so yet again. The huge branch hanging above the bed isn't exactly new, either, but it had been on the dining room wall last Scotland had seen it, moved there to set France's mind at ease because he'd been convinced it would somehow work its way free from the very sturdy set of bolts holding it and concuss one or both of them in the middle of the night.  
  
And there are enough other little differences to be unsettling, besides. The wallpaper's not the right colour or pattern, nor is the carpet, though they're both similar enough that it's easily missed on first glance, and there's a desk set flush against one wall that's never been there before. It's covered in enough interesting looking pieces of flotsam and jetsam that it demands further investigation, however.  
  
Scotland skims the papers littering the desktop first, but they don't hold any sort of clue as to where they might have appeared from. In fact, they seem to be pages from the same dull report that he'd flung across his coffee table a couple of weeks ago in the hope that it'd get swallowed up by the mess there and thus furnish him with a decent excuse for not having read it the next time he meets with his boss after the holiday recess. Perhaps the _uruisg_ had dug them out and left them here for him. Along with a desk.  
  
That doesn't seem particularly likely, and so Scotland forges on, sifting through a scattering of smaller rocks and a tidy collection of love spoons that look  like better quality versions of the ones Wales insists on buying from tourist tat shops to 'bolster the local economy' in Cardiff, and then foists off on whoever walks through his door because he's run out of places to put them. He also encounters a small figurine that looks almost identical to one he'd smuggled out from England's house after accidentally knocking it off a shelf during one of his and Wales' illicit rum-gathering expeditions to their brother's parlour, but he can't see any join marks or traces of glue, despite the fact that both the small porcelain boy and his canine companion had been beheaded when they hit the ground.  
  
Every item's near-familiarity is intriguing, but hardly illuminating, bringing him no closer to figuring out either the mystery of his altered bedroom, or France's seeming disappearance. He sighs, braces his hands against the edge of the desk, and looks up.  
  
Up into a mirror that shows the reflection of a long, red-bearded face that definitely isn't his own, nor anyone else's he knows.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

His whole body trembles with a wave of vertigo that threatens to bring up the contents of his stomach. The taste it brings to his mouth, however, is a phantom one. Scotland certainly hadn’t been drinking wine, nor did he eat anything remotely decent last night. A bag of Doritos while watching a cheap horror film and musing over the best way to avoid seeing his brothers. The rotten bastards.

He considers moving house for a moment before stretching out his body. His room is still blanketed in the dim comforting glow of early morning, and he’s unable to focus on the fact that his back doesn’t seem to pop and crack in all the little places he’s used to. His hand collides with something warm and lumpy, closely followed by a loud crash and a high pitched yelp.

“What the fuck?” Scotland barks instinctively, lurching himself over to the side of the bed and staring down at the mass of skinny limbs and tussled hair. It doesn’t take him long to pick that shape out, and his confusion settles further like a mist around his tired eyes. “How the bloody hell did you get in here?” he asks much more sharply than he might usually allow himself.

France hauls himself up, and Scotland assumes that he’s staring back rigidly. “What are you talking about, Scotland?” France murmurs as he runs a hand through his hair in a small unconscious effort to make it look presentable.

“What do you mean what am I talking about? Did England and my brothers let you in or something?“ he asks, earning what his more focused eyes can now pick out as a massively confused, but otherwise blank stare. “Not that I mind or anything. You’re always welcome, but-”

France immediately presses his hand against Scotland’s forehead and leans forward with a soft coo. “Are you feeling unwell?”

“No, I’m-”

France's hand slides away, then he leans down and presses a kiss onto Scotland’s brow. “You seem a little warm. Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much white wine next time?” he says with a laugh that’s slightly heavy with leftover sleep.

Scotland reluctantly places his hand upon his own brow to test for any abnormal heat, but he finds only a layer of sweat that he’s certain would have repulsed France at any other time in their long history together.

It’s all rather confusing, but, as Scotland raises his voice to start asking questions, France stretches his arms into the air and glances back towards an alarm clock that flashes the time at them in a slow and lazy rhythm, leading France into making a familiar unsatisfied noise. That noise always causes Scotland to feel like a puppy about to get smacked by a slipper; to prepare himself to start work on correcting the problem.

“I suppose it’s good you woke me this early, I can have a wash and get dinner started before _Angleterre_ arrives.”

How did France know England and his brothers would be coming? Is this all some horrendous joke they’re all pulling? Has he inadvertently DIED and been whisked off to heaven?

The last option seems likely, due to a blinding light filling the room and momentarily turning Scotland’s world white. The room however comes back into focus, yet somehow it looks all wrong and Scotland feels his shoulders arch as he tries to pinpoint exactly what the problem is.

“I’m going to make a little coffee and put the turkey on before _Angleterre_ has a chance to set it alight,” France says. “Why don’t you have a shower and get ready?”

Then France potters out of the room and Scotland admires the way his arse is just visible from under a baggy grey T-shirt. He hears the sound of his bathroom door easing open and the other nation rummaging through all his soaps and shampoos, likely making use of anything left behind by Northern Ireland and clucking his tongue judgementally over Scotland’s tastes and plotting to throw everything out. Again.

That’s when Scotland’s eyes trail downwards, a sea of striped green material tugging hazily at his memory as he tosses it aside and eases himself off the bed. His body feels a little loose, like it’s not quite his own, and yet it’s not uncomfortable like it always is when he’s switched into one of his brothers and forced to deal with their puny forms.

His eyes stray back to the bed covers, itching and poking at his memory which sparks back into life as the cloud of fatigue and nausea slowly drops away.

He doesn’t own striped bedding, he realises, and he never covers anything in green. Green is the colour Ireland drapes everything in. Scotland knows he had a blue cover here when he fell asleep.

Did France decide to change it during the night? How did he even manage to do something like that without waking Scotland up? Why would he even do something like that?

His eyes drift around again, his toes curling into the carpet. It doesn’t feel right he thinks; his own carpet wasn’t this soft and clean when he went to bed.

France also appears to have folded his clothing where he'd normally leave it in a jumble on his chair. Plus he's stolen Scotland's desk along with all the items that live on it not to mention that he's also decided to wallpaper the entire room with a slightly different design of wallpaper. A design only a fraction different from the one he remembers.

He’s often thought that France enjoyed making things more to his taste, but this is ridiculous!

Bemused, dry eyes lurk back to the suspicious green covers then arc upwards to the massive gap that now hangs like a spectre over his headboard

Apparently France has managed to rip the massive log Scotland kept there off the wall, pollyfilla’d the gaps where the bolts used to be and relocated the thing somewhere else all by himself.

“Wait, hold on a second,” Scotland says, twisting his body around to where his desk once was, eyes widening as he recalls the important items he housed there.

He paces over to the space it had once occupied, and there’s currently nothing there but some hiking gear that lived BESIDE his desk, but no desk! No boxes or papers, marbles, or trinkets, and his handy dandy pencil holder gone too!

He eases his hand out to try and see if perhaps it’s merely invisible. Doubtless part of the prank his brothers are playing on him. His hand collides with nothing but the wall with a firm thud.

That’s when he locks eyes with somebody he’s never seen before, and he jerks backwards raising his fists in a bid to defend himself. Though the stranger does so as well, just as quickly.

Scotland lowers his arms and realises that it’s no fucking intruder, that’s his bloody mirror!

It’s not HIS reflection staring out at him, not even somebody he recognises, but a brown haired stranger with green eyes and a tatter of stubble where his beard should be.

Scotland leans his hands on either side of the mirror and stares for a while, breath slowing to a halt. He carefully studies the way his eyebrows dip and rise in the reflective surface as he twitches them, taps the glass to see if Wales has set some sort of water illusion on the frame. Nothing happens.

They feel like his eyebrows, it feels like his face, but it‘s obviously NOT his face and the quick cleansing spell his fingers form into do nothing to reveal the trick or send him back to his own body. The stranger's brows finally furrow in thick knots of confusion and his teeth grind together.

 

  


* * *

 

France stands under the hot water, a lather of shampoo gently easing his hair back into a manageable and silky state. He quickly sets the bottle aside and gets to work lifting his conditioner.

A sudden flurry of loud swears from Scotland's bedroom startles France into dropping it.

France frowns over the interruption but allows himself to believe that it’s simply Scotland's reaction to the sudden realisation that he's having family over today. Then he gets back to working the conditioner over the ends of his hair and thinking about exactly how he should prepare tonight’s meal.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

Scotland pinches the bridge of his nose hard between his thumb and his – much shorter; how the hell hadn't he noticed _that_ whilst he was rifling through the interloping desk? – forefinger, as it tends to help focus his mind even if it never eases headaches like he's heard it's supposed to, and screws his eyes closed.

When he opens them again, they're still blue, his hair is still red, and he still looks as though he hasn't had a shave in far longer than France would usually stand for without starting to drop some serious hints that it was perhaps time to seek out a razor and put it to its intended purpose. (Scotland and France have different types of stubble, apparently: Scotland's being an unacceptable length after only a week of not being arsed to shave, whilst France's, which looked pretty much identical to Scotland's eye apart from the colour, was allowed to remain in that state permanently.)

He pokes experimentally at his now slightly longer nose and more angular jaw, and finds them both solid enough that they're unlikely to be an illusion of some kind. He then ventures a smile at his reflection, idly wondering how the expression might look when made with thinner lips.

The answer, to his horror, is fucking appalling. Downright creepy, even, as though smiling's something his new face just isn't designed to do; like it doesn't quite fit right and the rest of his features have to try and shuffle out of the way to make room for it. It's too wide, shows far too many teeth, and scrunches up his eyes in a way that makes him look like he's contemplating doing something very unsavoury and taking more pleasure in that than he should.

"Jesus," Scotland groans, quickly looking away from the mirror before he has the chance to notice anything even more disheartening.

He doesn’t consider himself in the least bit vain – he's never found much reason to be – but France has taken to calling his normal face handsome in recent years, which has served to make him rather more appreciative of it, if nothing else. Quite apart from the serial killer smile, he can't even begin to think what France might make of it now, which makes the change feel even more unsettling and unwelcome than it already was.

The thought leads him to wonder if perhaps France had been the first to notice said change, and that was what had caused him to leave their bed and disappear off to who knows where. Magic has wreaked enough havoc in Scotland's life over the millennia that he can find himself with a different face or body and confront it with equanimity – knowing that everything will sort itself out eventually, and he's best off just making himself as comfortable as he can whilst he waits for it all to blow over – but France is only just beginning to come to terms with the random occult crap that seems to happen to their family on a semi-regular basis, and so Scotland can't blame him if his first reaction had been a hasty, panicked retreat.

He's probably just sitting in the living room drinking copious amounts of coffee in a counterintuitive attempt to calm his nerves, and thus just far enough away, perhaps, that he hadn't heard Scotland shouting his name earlier.

Scotland's hallway seems to have undergone the same subtle transformation as his bedroom, something that is made painfully obvious even before he turns on the light when he stubs his toe on a small table that's lurking by the bathroom door where it has no right to be. Scotland kicks out at the table reflexively, and then hops around cursing both of his bruised feet loudly enough that it prompts his neighbour to bang indignantly on their shared partition wall.

The stairs are right where they should be, thankfully, though Scotland's stomach clenches as he hobbles down them nevertheless as he realises that his swearing should have done more than piss off Simon next door. It should have summoned France to his side in order to either berate him for being so noisy or else pour sympathy on his injuries, dependent on mood, and yet the house has that same eerie stillness to it that he'd sensed when he first woke up.

Sure enough, Scotland can't see France in the living room when he pokes his head inside, nor is he in the kitchen (though that's less of a surprise, as France tends to regard Scotland's kitchen with the same trepidation as he would a toxic waste dump, and only steps foot in it when forced by necessity).

The kitchen itself, however, is so far from his expectations that it gives Scotland pause, his search for France momentarily forgotten.

He'd thoroughly disinfected every single surface and cupboard only the day before in preparation for France's arrival, but it seems have spontaneously generated mess over night, something he'd long suspected about his house, but never witnessed before. Empty boxes and bags are strewn across the countertops, the tiles are sticky underfoot, and the sink is piled high with dirty plates and bowls.

There are also a fair few pans soaking on the draining board, which must have fucking migrated there for the winter from another house or something, because Scotland only owns one, and that only ever gets unearthed if North happens to be staying over around Bonfire Night and gets seized by the urge to make his own toffee.

They also don't seem nice enough to the ones that France had brought with him in order to cook the Hogmanay meal, and it seems doubtful he'd make a secret late-night trip to the local Tescos to buy more after Scotland fell asleep, just so he could make… Scotland peers a little closer at caked-on scum coating the nearest pan, and deduces from the colour and consistency that it must once have contained Heinz Cream of Tomato soup, for which a quick spin in the microwave was more than adequate preparation.

It's also something which France refuses to eat on principle, even though there's nothing better than a nice big bowl of it for defrosting a chilled body after a hike at this time of year, which leaves Scotland back at square one as far as divining the origins of alien cookware goes.

He turns away from the sink towards the fridge, impelled by the sudden need to make himself a cup of tea, an impulse which usually overtakes him at some point when faced with any situation that requires more than the usual amount of deliberation or composure.

It doesn't even feel like a surprise anymore that the huge collection of magnets Ireland has bought him over the years are no longer covering the fridge door, or that the fancy crap France had made him buy (which had made a distressingly large dent in his bank balance) has been replaced by packets of minced beef, and cheese, and a plethora of those little pots of Cadbury's chocolate mousse that Scotland loves, but France thinks are a gastronomic abomination,

The milk's in its usual spot, to Scotland's great relief, as are the teabags, though his favourite mug does seem to have gone walkabouts, taking at least half his teaspoons along with it. The ritual of tea-making's the same as it ever is, however, which is the entire point of it at times like this.

He sits himself down at the very handy little table that's sprung up in the corner of the room afterwards, sips gingerly at his too-hot tea, and tries to marshal his thoughts into some sort of coherent order.

The most important mystery is that of France's disappearance, although Scotland's beginning to suspect that he was never there in the first place, no matter what his memory keeps trying to tell him. He hasn’t seen a single hint of the other nation's presence, none of the little alterations that France always makes to Scotland's arrangements whenever he visits, and the nagging feeling that he's alone in the house hasn't abated one iota.

Belatedly, he thinks to hunt for the familiar distortions that France makes to the natural patterns of magic whenever he's nearby, but no matter how far he quests with that sense that isn't quite touch and isn't quite sight, but seems somewhat like both all the same, he can't find even the faintest of ripples. What he does find, however, is the even more familiar pulse of his land, the one that resonates so perfectly with that his body's own natural rhythms that the connection feels so natural and inevitable that sometimes he thinks he might sink into it entirely one day and never escape.

Which confirms something he realised he'd never even considered questioning: he's still Scotland, at least.

A Scotland with a different face, no France, and a house in which everything's just a little out of place; it all adds up to a conclusion that is so farfetched that Scotland can barely believe he's even entertaining it.

He's read plenty of sci-fi books with the premise and thought they were entertaining enough though pretty ridiculous, but Stephen Hawking seems to support the idea from what Scotland's understands, and he's far more qualified to make that judgement than Scotland will ever be.

What he's never encountered, however, is a _spell_ that might send someone off swapping bodies with their counterpart from another dimension. Parallel universe. Or whatever.

If there is one, which does seem almost (maybe) plausible given the circumstances, it's odds on that England's the one who's discovered it, because he's always poking around in things that are best left alone, magically speaking.

Besides, when something like this happens, it's _always_ England who's behind it.

Except for that one time when it was Norway.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

“The fuck is that?” Scotland asks himself again, practically straining with the effort of staring at this brand new face.

It’s not a bad face or anything, but he was rather fond of the old one; he was comfortable with it, and frankly, this one just isn’t sitting well with him. The eyes are green, the same shade of dark green present on Northern Irelands dopey little face, and when he dips his brows to scowl he’s aware that he bears the same annoying resemblance to England that his baby brother does. Albeit, a much more loose and disjointed one.

The nose is also a little short and when he takes a wary attempt at pulling his lips into a smile the face doesn’t fall to pieces like his own usually does. It actually seems rather handsome.

It’s still annoying though, and he can only get his mind off it by once again drawing the cleansing spell out on a slip of paper he’d found after a little exploring. He knows by now that it’s not going to work, but the little symbols and the motion of drawing his finger around it when he’s done is cleansing to the mind as well as to any magic that’s run amok.

It’s only then that Scotland notices something off about the way his hand is holding the pen, and it's caused by fingers, he discovers, that are far too long. He’d normally notice such a thing faster: Wales has particularly delicate hands and Ireland's are like someone tied a bunch of toothpicks into a lump of play-doh, and if their spirits have ever gotten tangled up along the way, it’s always been a massive problem that had rendered him unable to do anything with the pathetic sticks his brothers call digits.

But he barely noticed the difference, because somehow these hands seem to be his. Or not completely not his, or something along those lines.

His eyes drift back to the mirror and his face settles into a frown. If he actually had a face a little more like this then France might take more than a passing fleeting interest in him, and it’s a shame then, he thinks, that this is just some stupid illusion.

It’s all too frustratingly self indulgent for him to take anymore and as such he quickly locates the nearest pair of jeans he can find, throws them on and eases himself towards the door, his eyes becoming aware that the grain is slightly different and the handle curves upwards at it's tipped, instead of down.

The list of alterations France has made to the house - and to Scotland himself if this proves to be some form of surgery he’s witnessing - seems to be increasing by the moment. He hopes that when he throws the door open, he’ll be able to step outside this strangeness, find England and throttle him for the stupid inconvenience.

His momentary longing for some sign of his brothers is dashed, however, by the expanse of his hall, with its same warped similarities and few mind bending differences. The carpet and wallapaper seem to have been ripped up and torn down and replaced with something different.

And France certainly hasn’t disappeared. He's even going so far as to spend much too long in the shower, use up the hot water and, apparently, sing something blissfully in French that Scotland suddenly realises doesn’t sound-

It doesn’t sound right.

He quickly slinks forward, his new legs obeying his every demand though they feel slightly rubbery at the same time, and he even manages to arch his foot around the small table he keeps at the bathroom door, set up specifically because Northern Ireland has a bad habit of leaving shit places it shouldn’t be, and it acts as a sort of dumping ground for when Scotland discovers it.

But it’s gone. His foot has arched around a big empty piece of nothing. Has somebody stolen every table in his home? And why would they do that? It makes about as much sense as… Well it makes as much sense as France breaking into his home, remodelling the place and giving him plastic surgery.

Scotland eases his eyes towards the bathroom door, his sense of unease growing and distilling up until the realisation that panicking and worrying are doing nothing. He decides instead to travel towards the kitchen in search of something hot, and hopefully some explanation as to what’s happened and if he can undo it.

He hears the bathroom door open and France’s familiar footsteps pad into the bedroom as Scotland takes his first step into his kitchen. He has this weird sense of déjà vu, except that he’s not surprised by the fact everything is repeating, but that everything is changing, and that he seems to be getting used to the idea.

Of course all his notes for work are gone, replaced by a massive splattering of fridge magnets he doesn’t remember Ireland ever sending him.

Of course his floor is clean enough to eat off, and not still sticky from his efforts to piss off England when he finally showed up today.

Of course his pots and pans appears to have been cleaned up and put away and…

Of course his corner table is gone. What else did he expect?

At least the kettle appears to be in the same place, and his mugs are still in the same spot, although they’ve suddenly all become masters of disguise and transformed into different mugs.

And his teabags and sugar seem to have suffered a bit of a refill since last night. There’s even a jar of coffee in there that Scotland doesn’t recall buying, but France's presence in the house makes such a realisation unremarkable and he gets to work shovelling some of the granules into a mug before turning his attention to his own tea and listening as France appears, nice as you like, in the room as though he’s every reason to be there.

“I was going to do that for you,” France says as he casually presses a kiss to Scotland's lips that lingers a little longer than Scotland remembers them ever doing. When France breaks away, he seems genuinely put out when Scotland gets back to work pouring the water into the two mugs and looking a little stony in the face. “Scotland, are you alright?”

Scotland wanders over to the fridge, hesitating for a moment before throwing it open. All his food appears to have taken root and become more expensive during the night and he feels somehow like his bank balance has been badly affected, even if he can’t remember purchasing a thing. The milk is in the same spot, though, and he takes it out in time to see France lift his coffee and step aside for Scotland to get to work adding a tiny drop of milk to his tea and about four sugars into the mix.

France pauses in taking his first sip of the morning to bore his eyes into the back of Scotland’s hands, like they’re doing something incredibly villainous.

“Do you want some tea with that sugar?” France asks finally before carefully lifting the milk and scrutinising it with a cocked brow.

“This is how I always have it,” Scotland says, but France only looks at him with a mix of annoyance, confusion and what looks a little like worry, but he’s not seen worry on France's face in so long he's not sure he really recognises it, and realises too late that he's staring.

“It’s not like you to get so worked up about your brothers coming over.”

The lingering wonder as to HOW France knew that, WHY he seems to believe that Scotland likes things he knows he’s never liked, and WHAT has happened to his house and body to make it suddenly all seem so terribly askew.

He realises what's happened as France finally takes a sip of his coffee and chokes on it in revulsion before adding a lot more water and complaining about it tasting like tar when Scotland knows that France likes his coffee strong.

It’s not the entire world that’s gone absolute cock side up.

He’s the one who’s changed.

He’s the one thing in this scenario that makes no sense, at least he’s beginning to think so, and he watches as France drinks his coffee, leaning against the counter and not trying to escape, or slinking away to another part of the house like he’s trying to put as many walls, doors and fences between them as possible, because his amusement has worn off.

His longer fingers rise to brush his new face, a reminder that whatever is going on, this France isn’t interested in him, but in whoever owned this body before he barged into it, and likely his own would appreciate a face this handsome as opposed to the one he actually owns, wherever it may be.

That’s when France looks at him and frowns, easing forward and staring at him with big blue eyes that almost trick Scotland into believing that things might have gone back to normal, because they’re as beautiful as ever.

“Scotland?” France says, his hand rubbing along his arm in something that looks like comfort but Scotland instinctively distrusts despite how much he loves seeing it. “What’s the matter? You look terribly glum.”

“Glum?” Scotland replies, just a little too quickly he thinks. He forces his entire body to rise, to look confidant and unshakeable. Because it’s all he knows how to do. “No, just-”

He almost reaches out to run his hand through France's hair, to tilt his head and see if he can find some difference that he can use to create a bit of a distance between the one he knows and this other.

If he is indeed different.

France sighs a little wearily and curls his arms around Scotland’s body.

“You know you can tell me anything, _mon coeur_ ,” France says, his fingers trailing a little line down Scotland’s bare back, causing him to shiver.

It’s as much as Scotland can do to set his tea aside, grip France by the shoulders and gently push him away, trying to think of some excuse as to why he really has to go. Nothing comes to him and he can’t find it in himself to be cruel.

“I just,” he continues, eyeing anything that isn’t France's astonished expression. “I should probably go get washed up,” he finishes quickly before walking off as swiftly as he can manage, though he hears France make that familiar discontented noise and get to work hunting through a cupboard in search of something to eat.

Scotland is quick to decide that what he needs to do is have a shower, because the bathroom will have a lock and he can try and figure out what in the name of all that’s holy is going on!

The thought passes over him as he trudges up the stairs that this is all possibly just some incredibly horrid dream, but when he nips the back of his hand it stings sharply. He heads into the bathroom and bolts the door before running his hand down his face again in morbid confusion.

He’s still Scotland, that much is clear, he feels neither out of place in this body nor does France seem intent on calling him anything else. There’s no magic pulling his face into this shape nor has any magic altered his home.

He knows there’s no spell strong enough to alter reality. England tried it once and got nothing for it but a badly burned finger and a good scolding from Wales that hadn’t ceased for so long that Scotland was sure Wales would lose his voice for at least a month.

If this isn’t his reality, well he must be in some other one, and as such, everything he sees around him is his but not his all at once. But that’s not his France. He feels it in his gut. Which means he has the single thing he’s wanted since he was a pup right in his grasp and he still can’t bloody touch it!

Scotland allows his head to thump painfully off the wooden door and to stare at his feet.

Whatever bloody magic this is supposed to be, he thinks it’s unusually cruel.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; London, England**

 

England freezes when he looks in the rear view mirror, his hands slowly tightening until they're wrapped so firmly around the steering wheel that he can feel the leather's stiff stitching digging into his palms even through his driving gloves.

" _Lloegr_?" Wales' voice sounds to be coming from somewhere a lot further away than the passenger seat; faint, and muffled by the pounding of blood in England's ears. "Are you okay? I thought you were ready to –"

"Everybody out of the car," England snaps, unbuckling his seat belt with one hand and gesticulating brusquely to encourage his passengers to follow suit with the other.

There's a chorus of groans and complaints from the back seat, but England pays them no mind, because what he has just witnessed cannot in good conscience be allowed to stand.

"What on earth's wrong now?" Wales asks in an undertone once they've all disembarked, leaning in towards England over the Bentley's newly polished bonnet and smearing it with his rain-damp coat.

"Did you not see what that lad was doing to North?" England hisses back.

" _Gwlad yr Iâ_?" Wales says uncertainly, as though there's some sort of ambiguity in England's question he can’t quite parse, glancing back down the driveway to where the nation in question is standing far too close to their little brother. Northern Ireland's shivering slightly – underdressed for the weather as he always is despite England's imprecations that he put on a heavier coat, or at least a scarf – and Iceland's hands are hovering uncertainly between them, as though he might be considering placing them upon Northern Ireland's person in response. "No, I didn't."

"He had his hand," England says, voice heavy with the portent of the news he was about to deliver, "on North's leg."

"Oh." One of Wales' eyebrows twitches upwards slightly. "Whereabouts on his leg?"

"Why the hell does that matter?"

"I'm just trying to get a better idea about the seriousness of the situation," Wales says in a tone which suggests he's already classified the incident as not serious in the slightest.

"It was on his knee," England replies, frowning at his brother's inappropriate levity.

Wales laughs explosively. "Jesus Christ, _Lloegr_. Don't you think you're overreacting a tad? That's probably not the worst place his hand's ever been, you kn–"

"In my bloody car, it is," England cuts in before Wales sees fit to speculate, yet again, about the imagined bounteousness of North's sex life, especially in comparison to the barren wasteland that is, apparently, Wales' own. Sometimes, England hates what this family has become recently; hates it with a passion.

"Look, I don't care what they might get up to in Belfast," he says, onerously grinding the lie out through gritted teeth, because Wales will just lecture him about how he shouldn't try to suppress North's 'perfectly healthy expressions of sexuality' if he doesn't, "but he's not there now, is he. My car, my rules, and they're just going to have to keep their hands to themselves. North can sit up in the front with me, just to make sure."

Wales smirks and rolls his eyes a little, obviously convinced that England's overreacting, but he concedes, nevertheless, bustling off with a cheery, "Have it your way," to chivvy everyone back to the car, and their designated places within it.

The new arrangement, England decides as he settles back down in the driving seat, is much more to his liking, even though it leaves Romano – still loudly complaining about the cold and the delay, and everything else under the sun, too, no doubt, if England cared to listen attentively enough to notice – sitting crushed up against Wales. He can only hope that they don't have sufficient room left to manoeuvre themselves, but even if they do, Wales, although his dubious decisions do give cause to wonder at times, is an adult, and there's not much England can do about where he chooses to put _his_ hands.

He can, and will, choose to pretend not to see anything of the sort if it occurs, however.

"Are you going to be okay with the A to Z back there, Wales?" Northern Ireland asks, twisting around in his seat to face his brother. "It doesn't look like you've got much room."

"I think I can just about manage to wriggle my elbows free," Wales says gamely, before embarking on a truly prodigious amount of wriggling.

Unfortunately, he only manages to liberate one elbow, and even that's crammed close against Romano's ear. England curses himself under his breath, for forgetting that North is completely incapable of reading a map, and, for the second time that day, for never having got around to buying himself a new SatNav after Wales managed to program the last one with such ineptitude that it suffered a bout of disorientation severe enough to confuse itself into an early grave.

"I think I can manage without directions, just this once," England says, striving for and almost hitting an up-beat, confident tone. "It's hardly the first time I've driven to Scotland's, after all."

Wales and Northern Ireland both snort in almost perfect unison.

"You'll get lost before you even reach the M25," Northern Ireland suggests, because it's apparently too much to ask that his brothers refrain from mocking England's shortcomings whilst they've got company. Though, really, he shouldn't have expected any different.

"You can't navigate your way out of a paper bag on dry land," Wales agrees. "We'll probably end up in Portsmouth."

"Ha bloody Ha," England says, his jaw clenching tight once more. "Right, well, I suppose you'll have to swap back with Wales, North. Except," he adds, grabbing Northern Ireland's shoulder to hold him before he can finish slipping out of the door, "I think it's best if you sit next to Romano this time."

Northern Ireland's eyes narrow angrily. "For fuck's sake, is that why –"

England turns the engine on to drown out the rest of Northern Ireland's words, and waves him along with a quick flick of his wrist. North mouths an anatomically impossible suggestion at him, but still stomps around the car to take Wales' place when he vacates it.

"You may come to regret that decision," Wales says as he positions himself in the passenger seat for the second time.

"How so?" England asks, casting another wary glance at the rear view mirror. There are scowls all round in the backseat, but everyone's hands are where they should be, so he can't see it as anything other than an improvement in their circumstances. "I thought those two got along better now."

"Oh, they do," Wales says, somehow managing to make the simple affirmation sound like a pronouncement of imminent doom. "In between all the times they're fighting like fucking cats and dogs, anyway. You'll be wanting to leave them both by the side of the motorway before we've even got to Milton Keynes, believe me."

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; London, England**

 

Travelling, England decides, is something he prefers to do alone.

The long haul to Edinburgh looms ahead of him, and he wonders again why they’re bothering. It’s all a ridiculous ruse perpetrated by Scotland and Wales so that Ireland will actually show up. Reunite the family for a day or two and remember exactly why it is they spend so much time apart.

“Are you sure we can’t take my car?” England asks once more.

“I’d much rather not try and stuff North in the back seat of it,” Wales says. Why England seems so insistent on taking his Bentley anywhere is beyond him. He’d spend most of his time worrying about scratches or dents, and scolding Northern Ireland for hiding snack food wrappers in the nooks and crannies of the backseat. “Besides we’ve already got my car packed and it’s cheaper for the fuel.”

“And England never put you on his insurance,” Northern Ireland points out as he trundles past, his travel bag in hand, which then gets unsympathetically thrown into the floor of the boot.

That causes Wales to give England a rather impatient little scowl. “And you expected to get all the way there on your own steam, I suppose?”

“I could have got by!”

Wales looks thoroughly unconvinced, but he makes no move to argue. It’ll be a long enough drive for them, and spending most of their time arguing seems counterproductive.

“Why don’t we just get to Scotland in one piece,” Wales says, “and not get stopped by the police this time.”

The simple act of going near Scotland always serves to make England nervous. Regardless of how tiny he was or how large an army he had, it always strikes him as a terrible idea, because Scotland has always been a big brute. A big brute who never stops fighting regardless of how badly beaten he is.

“Why can’t I drive?” Northern Ireland says, and it encourages his older brothers to look in horror at one another.

“You don’t have a licence, and it’s not that long a drive anyway.”

“Seven fucking hours you mean,” Northern Ireland grumbles.

England makes a point of closing the boot and ignoring Northern Ireland's sentiment. “Go lock up the house and shove the porch light on. And set the alarm while you’re at it!” he adds, though Northern Ireland seems like he was going to anyway, judging by the sarcastic sounding remarks he starts to sound off. “Without the attitude, please.”

“If you wind him up he’ll make our lives hell the entire way,” Wales warns.

“I’m not winding him up. I’m giving him an instruction,” England says with a low whispered tone to argue the point.

Wales doesn’t respond and instead gets to work checking his pockets for his keys and wallet, he finds both after a rather paranoid tap down of his arse and the deep recesses of his thick, brown winter jacket. “I think I’ll fill the car with petrol before we go.”

“We should have brought a flask of tea along,” England says as he rubs his arms and totters about on his feet rather impatiently. “What on earth is taking him so long?”

“Perhaps he needed the loo,” Wales says, though he’s known Northern Ireland long enough to know that it’s more likely he’s slowed his pace to simply be a nuisance.

“Speaking of which, Wales; you did go before we came outside, didn't you?”

“What kind of child do you think I am?” Wales snarls back. “Of course I bloody did!”

England might make further comment, but Northern Ireland chooses that moment to step outside, to the accompaniment of the faint sounds of England’s alarm setting itself with long droning whines, and gentle undertones of England’s keys tinkling as Northern Ireland turns them in the lock.

“Is that everything?” Northern Ireland asks as he wanders towards his older brothers, his breath turning to mist as he stuffs his hands into his pockets in search of heat.

The weather is starting to chill over rather badly, and England is glad he spent the extra time letting the car run and defrost itself.

“I think so. Now let's get a move on. The sooner we get to Scotland’s the sooner we can leave,” England says, as he opens the back door and motions for Northern Ireland to get in. “If we’re going to the shop, I’m picking us up a packet of mints or something.”

Northern Ireland slides into the back and allows himself to droop in his seat lazily as he tugs the door closed with a sizable slam.

“Fine,” Wales says before he and England throw the doors open and climb into their seats. “But if they scatter all over my glove box again I’ll turn them into sedatives.”

England casually pops Wales’ glove box open and screws his face up at the collection of papers, pens and other detritus that’s managed to work its way in there. There’s a small note book that Wales uses to make obsessive little notes in, though about what those notes are and why he feels the need doesn’t interest England enough to ask.

“I hope you realise that the only thing that belongs in a glove box is a pair of driving gloves,” England grumbles, idly sweeping several receipts aside and finding a familiar set of keys that he takes a moment to regard as if he’s just found the holy grail. “Do you know how long I was looking for these?”

“Well I didn’t put them there. I’ve no need for your stupid-” Wales pauses, fidgets around and pauses in putting on his seatbelt. “Oh, for fuck sake.”

“What is it? What have you done now?”

“North, what’s the number for the alarm?”

“One, nine, six, six, four, two.” Northern Ireland says, his voice slowly droning to a suspicious sounding slither. “Why?”

Wales rattles his fingers over the steering wheel and looks a little ashamed of himself before throwing the door open and hopping out.

“I need to use the toilet again.”

“Oh for the love of-” England hisses as his older brother trudges away. “I swear his bladder is the size of a grape.”

“How much you want to bet he doesn’t know how to open the little hatch on the alarm panel?”

“I’m not willing to take that bet. Wales is an idiot,” England says, listening as the alarm distantly beeps in warning before exploding into a cacophony of noise that gets windows and blinds twitching all around the estate. “Be a good lad and go turn that off,” he says, as he rubs his forehead with his fingers in small comforting circles, “And while you’re in there bring me some paracetamol and a bottle of water, I think we’ll need it.”

“I’m filling a flask with some fucking hot water and bringing stuff to make tea.”

“Are you now?”

“Aye, and captain piss pants isn’t fucking allowed any!” Northern Ireland calls loudly over the shrieking whines emitting from England's alarm system as he gets out of the car and jogs inside, his boots crunching on the partially iced over drive.

What England wouldn’t give, at times, for a completely different, more normal family.


	2. Chapter 2

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
  
Words are powerful – and names even more so – because they can bind the spirit of a thing within themselves, giving form to that which is formless. And whatever has form can be used and manipulated, or broken and destroyed.  
  
They have to be the right words, though, for a spell to work properly, and Scotland's runes always come out slightly wonky.  
  
For the fifth time, he wipes his hand over the ones he'd traced upon the living room floor with his finger, shattering the crooked lines. Their crimson glow soon fades away, and eventually all that remains of them is the sulphurous stench of spent power and a scattering of scorch marks.  
  
Scotland prods at those a little guiltily, hoping that the Scotland whose body he's currently inhabiting – Alterna-Scotland? Other-Him? – isn't too fond of his carpet.  
  
The problem with Scotland's magic is that it's nothing but a blunt instrument, and it's not even a hammer, it’s a battering ram. It's fantastic for breaking and destroying – and sending curses flying so hard that they knock their target clean off their feet – but useless when it comes to delicate manipulations.  He's not even sure what he'd been hoping to achieve, because this sort of fiddly spellwork is way beyond his capabilities. It's more Ireland's sort of thing, because she's got more subtlety in her little finger than he has in his entire fucking body.  
  
That thought niggles at him until it becomes a fully-fledged plan: he should try and contact Ireland. She knows all sorts of cleansing rituals that he's never had either the patience or skill to learn, and one of them might be strong enough to scour away even a spell so powerful it can yank someone's essence out of their own dimension and plonk it down in another.  
  
Decision made, he gets to his feet, and then – pausing only to reposition a small coffee table that's covered with almost as much random detritus as his own so that it's covering the burnt patches of carpet – sets out to hunt for a phone.  
  
The problem with mobiles, however, is they can be almost anywhere. In Scotland's experience, they keep ending up in the most unexpected of places, like the edge of the sink, or underneath the bed, or, on one particularly puzzling occasion, behind a tub of margarine in the fridge. The whereabouts of both mobiles and keys are apparently the two things that refuse to stick in Scotland's otherwise eidetic memory, something he blames on his bad habit of not even thinking about where he sets them down.  
  
Usually, when he enters his house, he's either drunk or else preoccupied by some weighty topic, like what he's going to have for his tea, or how desperately he wants to get out of his work clothes and into something more comfortable; pretty much anything other than noticing where he throws down whatever he might be holding in his hands at the time. If Other-Scotland's anything like him, then his mobile could be almost anywhere.  
  
The idea of rooting through Other-Scotland's personal belongings (and coat pockets, the other favourite habitat of the Common Mobile Phone) makes Scotland feel slightly uneasy, concerned that he might stumble across something private; secret rather than just hidden away from public view. It seems likely, as he himself has a few such things squirreled away in his own home; ones that he'd prefer were never seen by any eyes but his own.  
  
Although, technically, if Other-Scotland has taken up residence in Scotland's vacated body, they would still _be_ his eyes. Technical doesn't mean Scotland feels comfortable about the prospect of some bloke he's never met poking through his stuff, seeing bits of Scotland that he's never shared with anyone else save France, but there seems little point to worrying about that. There's not much he can do about it here and now, and the alternative is even worse: if Other-Scotland's _not_ there, then Scotland's body will just be an empty shell, cold and lifeless, and the possibility of France waking up to find _that_ in their bed makes him feel sick to the stomach. He'd happily give Other-Scotland a bullet-pointed list outlining the most intimate workings of his mind if it meant avoiding that scenario.  
  
Thankfully, another foray into the hall reveals a cordless phone sitting on a small table by the front door (much handier, it appears, for supporting the miscellaneous bits of crap that accumulate in pockets than the shelf Scotland has in its place). Denied the easy practicality that is a mobile's contact list, Scotland reluctantly fishes around inside the little drawer set in the side of the phone table in case it might contain some sort of address book. There's nothing there, however, but a bunch of old receipts and a few torn scraps of paper, none of which have so much as a single phone number written upon them.  
  
The only option Scotland has is to hope that this universe isn't too askew, and try his own Ireland's number.  
  
The call's answered on the fourth ring by a tremulous, "Hello?"  
  
The voice is nothing like Ireland's, but then Other-Scotland's got a completely unfamiliar face and an apparent table fetish, so there's really no reason why Other-Ireland can't sound like a slightly confused octogenarian. "Is that Ireland?" he asks.  
  
"Yes, it is, dear," the voice says, causing a relieved smile to begin tugging at the corners of Scotland's mouth. It soon collapses, though, when the voice continues with: "Who is it you're wanting to speak to, though?"  
  
"Caitlin?" Scotland ventures tentatively, as he already feels as though it's a long shot, and has no real expectation of success.  
  
"No one here by that name, love. I think you must have the wrong number."  
  
Scotland apologises and agrees that yes, he must, and when the old lady who isn't Ireland hangs up, he allows himself a single loud, "Bloody hell," to vent his frustration (with a silent apology to maybe-Simon-but-who-the-fuck-knows-at-th

is-rate and his disturbed sleep appended).

His best bet next, he decides, is England. Of all his family, England's the one most likely to live in the same place, given the way he tenaciously clings to their old house like a limpet, ignoring all of the pointed comments their bosses make about how much he must rattle around in the place now that he's on his own, and what a strain on the budget it is to maintain a seven bedroom house in London.

England's number, however, is answered by a cheerful, "Hello, can I take your order?" which rather suggests that it currently belongs to a take-away.

Northern Ireland's number leads Scotland to a taxi firm (their rates sound very reasonable, though, and Scotland makes a mental note to look them up the next time he's in Belfast), and Wales' to a very irate bloke who shouts, "Who the fuck calls people at six o'clock on a Monday morning?" before slamming down his receiver.

Scotland's expectations of success are now hovering around about zero, but he attempts all of their mobile numbers regardless, because there's no harm in trying.

It nets him four voicemail messages, none of which sound to have been recorded by his siblings, and, by an accident of happenstance so fucking random as to be almost unbelievable, a tirade of abuse from the same angry Welshman as before.

The most reasonable explanation is that Other-Ireland et al simply live in different houses or were assigned different phone numbers by the fickle hand of fate, but Scotland's brain can't seem to resist prodding at the notion that it might be something more meaningful than that.

That perhaps this new universe he's found himself in isn't just different in the little details like wallpaper and hair colour, but in the bigger ones, too. Like the ones he's read books about, where Rome never fell, or Germany won World War Two.

Sad though it is to admit, he can't imagine any scenario like that where _he'd_ be the only one of his brothers left standing. Unless maybe the ice caps have melted, but even then, England could have just relocated to Cumbria if Edinburgh's still above sea level.

He decides to forgo further speculation and just watch the news at some point to check if Other-Scotland has himself a Rector Provinciae instead of a First Minister, when he realises how few changes it would have taken for there to be a universe without Northern Ireland or Wales. (Whose dissolution Scotland had secretly been expecting from the first moment he heard of his annexation. His ability to both claw back enough of himself from England over the years to ensure his own survival into the present day had revealed depths of resolve, fortitude and sheer bloody-mindedness that, before the union, Scotland had never before suspected his brother of possessing.)

Much to his chagrin, it's a realisation that makes him glad that – if this world has made a few more left turns than right and ended up that way – he likely won't be stuck here indefinitely, thanks to the inherent transience of magic.

Which is in itself a revelation, albeit one that he will be keeping very firmly to himself when he does finally return home.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**  


 

He hadn’t been aware that the first thing he’d do if pitched into some other life – one where France acts like the kind of lover Scotland’s always thought the man _should_ be – was to slowly get bored with all the differences in his home. The first thing he notices is the smell, which to his mind is rather creepy; he’s even grown accustomed to the man in the mirror and started to pretend it’s all the stupid illusion he thought it was at the start.

The towels seem to be in the right place, which is a really nice change from the, well, from the changes. He was getting fed up of those.

However, these towels, when he lifts one, seem a little fluffier to him, but he senses a grim logic to that by the way there are two toothbrushes in the little toothbrush holder by the sink.

France obviously spends a lot more time here than France does and if France spends more time here than France then France would obviously have more use for nicer, fluffier towels.

Along with the headache he feels coming on from how little that thought made sense to him he’s also very aware of one small fact, one that ruins his mood more entirely than all the confusion, the missing desks and the France that isn’t France.

He can’t work out which of these toothbrushes is meant to be his!

And even if he could work it out, does he really want to stick something in his mouth that belongs to some stranger he doesn’t know?

Even though it’s technically the same mouth?

And to call ‘some other Scotland’ a complete stranger seems backwards at any rate. Yet the level of discomfort he’s feeling by staring at the toothbrushes gives his small niggling worries some weight.

And small niggling worries are at least better than the massive looming one.

He can go buy another toothbrush at some point if he finds his wallet (if it is his) and buy a toothbrush at the shop and maybe write a note of apology to stick around it for when this is all over (If it ever is).

A further poke through the items on display by the sink illuminates little. Nothing really pops out at him but the plethora of, what look like, fossils, which help to bring a genuine smile to his face as he lifts one and turns it in his hands.

It proves that whoever this other Scotland, regardless of how much of a tosser he might be for happening to be a bit better looking than himself, is a collector of fine things.

Fossils are a particular love for Scotland, they’re one of the things that remind him that the nations, no matter how old they think they are, are really just small children in the face of everything. It’s a humbling thought, and as such he’s taken with it.

He’s always wondered too, if the distant nation of Pangaea might still be alive somewhere, or some distant ancestor, the mother of their mothers or-

Scotland pauses for a second, his hand setting the fossil down as delicately as he can before he looks to the mirror again.

How does he know that the world isn’t all different now? What if there’s no Wales in this reality because England killed them like his had always promised to do? How does he know that Ireland wasn’t swallowed up during the Jacobite wars? How does he know that Northern Ireland exists?

He doesn’t know a bloody thing. He only knows that this Scotland has at least two brothers considering France is speaking in plural, and he KNOWS that one of them is England because France called him by name.

“Shit,” Scotland grumbles to himself with a level of worry in his voice that he’s almost ashamed of. To voice some concern for his brothers is near unacceptable. Though if he’s got his facts right, then they aren’t really his brothers, making the worry pointless anyway. Which in turn seems to broaden the level of unacceptability.

But it does spark off a bit of paranoia. He can’t imagine a world with no Wales, Ireland or Northern Ireland.

And he can’t just casually ask now can he?

Can he?

He could, but it would make no fucking sense and cause him to look even more delusional than he might otherwise. Seems unfair to make this chap look four kinds of barmy.

Bit late though. He’ll add it to the apology note.

A deep breath cleanses Scotland’s head slightly. He’ll find out somehow if the world map is the same. He’ll check and see if each of his brothers are accounted for and, if he’s lucky, he’ll never meet them because all this will go back to normal before they arrive.

With that settled, he turns and analyses the shower. It’s not exactly identical but it seems to work in much the same way as his own; another bonus he feels.

He pauses again as he almost undoes the fly on his jeans.

Another niggling thought. This isn’t his body, but it is a Scotland. So does that make this man his brother? He’s not exactly taken by the idea of his brother's naked bodies and frankly he’s sure they aren’t taken to being scrubbed down by him.

Scotland peeks at the mirror again. This body does look a little like Northumbria he supposes, or what Northumbria might have looked like if he hadn’t personally killed the bastard off after Wales and England casually weakened him.

But he remembers that Northumbria had brown eyes just like Wales, or were they green? It was too long ago to possibly remember such a fleeting detail and it brings up disturbing connotations besides.

He’s only glad he’s locked himself in here, because he hadn’t had time to think when France was about.

There’s only so much amusement he can take in trying to hide away from France though. He seems like he might actually be upset and Scotland wonders if perhaps he should try to play along, keep the peace and go undercover. How hard can it be?

He turns on the shower and runs his hand under the cold water, feeling his eyes grow slightly heavy and his head start to throb with some distant pain that drifts about in his skull and settles between his shoulders.

Disregarding the fact he’s been locked in here for at least half an hour, and possibly is doing some harm to France's perception of him by doing so, he’s suddenly aware that when all is said and done, he’s obviously not playing his part very well.

He doesn’t know how he likes his own fucking tea for Christ’s sake, and mistakes like making Frances coffee too strong are going to stick out. Clues, he thinks, might be useful.

A quick mental checklist helps him to at least pull the jeans off and step into the shower.

His first task is to find some sort of indication that the world has not altered itself beyond recognition. To ensure that his siblings (or his un-siblings) are still there and not missing, because he’ll look stupid if he thinks he sees Wales but it’s actually something ridiculous like Dyfedia or Snowdow?

He lifts any old bottle of shampoo, and regards it for a moment to judge its relative Scottishness. He judges it to be okay from the plain look of the bottle and the fact he sees no matching conditioner to go with it.

His next step, he muses as he rubs the shampoo into his scalp, and gets his fingers slightly knotted in hair that’s thick and impossible, is to do some snooping. If and when this Scotland gets his body back, he’s certain more appreciation will be felt for a little acting than him cutting holes in things and allowing water to seep in that his alternate version has either previously managed to scoop out, if he ever had a problem with it at all.

He’s unwilling to make a judgement until he’s located something that tells him exactly what to think.

The step after that is simply to play along, go with the story about stress caused by visiting family until he’s got it all down, perhaps try and decipher if it was THIS family that caused his current situation and if they are, squeeze their windpipes shut until they set it all right again. It likely is something to do with this lot anyway, considering that they apparently still have an England, and he’s convinced that all England’s are made equal.

And by that he means that they’re all likely to be utter prats.

His final step shall be the acquisition of a toothbrush and to find a place to hide it. A third toothbrush would look suspicious, like he’s been smuggling someone else in here and has the sheer tenacity in his testicles to be blatant about it.

He isn’t going to be that person, not even while he’s living as a third wheel.

It’s just as Scotland starts rinsing himself down that he gains the courage to start looking at this body. There’s a moment of stupid realisation that strikes him that he’s been wandering around in a body without freckles this whole time and has only just noticed. And when he twists to look his arm and brushes his thigh fleetingly there’s nothing there.

A quick check all down his front reveals nothing and eventually he’s twisting like a crocodile doing a death roll in the shower. Stopping only when he’s content in the knowledge that this body isn’t covered in battle scars, none he can make out from here at least. The white line on his arm that reminds him that England really can be a dangerous little bastard if he tries hard enough has vanished.

The deep cuts Ireland had gouged from his leg aren’t there to remind him that his brother can do him a fair old amount of damage when he’s pushed too far, absent. Any of the tiny nicks Wales might have left with a bow and arrow are also absent from his rear though they’re impossible to see anymore regardless.

He finds it all strangely upsetting, like he’s lost an important chunk of himself that he can’t easily replace. He is reminded, however, that most of Northern Irelands scars linger on his back, as do many of those that Wales seems to have left over from his time with Rome, though the ones he says, England caused seem to all be well within his line of sight.

And Ireland’s scars linger mostly over his rib cage, and a set on his back mirror the ones worn by Northern Ireland, though they’ve healed better.

And with that thought Scotland awkwardly curls his arms around to poke cautiously, his finger coming into contact instantly with a small indentation that pulses painfully when he tries to work out what kind of weapon made it.

Apparently it’s a warning that he shouldn’t be thinking about it and he gets his mind off it by dipping his head under the water and letting his own memories flood back just in case they manage to get altered and mixed up with whatever bits of information might linger in this new brain and contaminate things for everyone involved.

  


* * *

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**  


 

Lacking any better ideas of how to proceed, Scotland decides to start going about the routine he would normally follow any morning that he hadn't found himself in a new house and body.

Even that proves more difficult than he anticipated, however, as he finds himself standing beside the running shower with his thumbs hooked beneath the elastic of his borrowed boxer shorts for far longer than he can easily blame on wanting to wait for the water to heat up.

It just doesn't seem right to strip this body so cavalierly, or to touch it beyond what's strictly necessary without permission. His many hundreds of years' worth of exposure to France's cheerful, unabashed exhibitionism haven't made Scotland any more comfortable with his own naked form – he even wears a T shirt to the beach, for fuck's sake; well, apart from that one time he let France persuade him to visit a nudist one, but that had turned into a disaster all around – and for all he knows, Other-Scotland feels the same.

And yet he can hardly go without washing this body entirely, as it might be months before the spell's effects finally wear off, and by that point, Scotland knows the smell will have become a near-physical thing, and poor Other-Scotland will likely have to fumigate the house upon his return.

He takes a deep breath and pulls down the shorts down his legs quickly enough that he his second thoughts don't have time to catch up. He kicks them off the end of his foot towards where the hamper would be in his near-identical bathroom – what Other-Scotland makes up for in tables, he loses in hampers, it appears; Scotland hadn't seen one in the master bedroom either – before finally stepping into the shower.

Contrary to the usual rules of unfamiliar showers, especially those with more complicated controls than one's own, the water's temperature is just right: warm enough to be pleasantly relaxing without becoming soporific. Scotland just stands and lets it run over him for a while, easing away some of the tension which has gradually been building in his neck and shoulders since the minute he was shocked back into consciousness.

When the last of the dull ache at the base of his skull has trickled itself away down the plughole, Scotland reaches for the shampoo he had seen sitting on the side of the bath. (Tescos own brand Coconut; Scotland bought some himself just the other day because it was on two for the price of one, and it makes him smile a little to think that his counterpart might be as canny a shopper as himself.) Dealing with Other-Scotland's hair will give him the time he needs to work up sufficient courage to tackle the more difficult aspects of this undertaking, and seems a safe place to start, besides.

For most people, at least. Scotland actually hates having his own hair touched, as he's well aware that it both looks and feels like a loo brush, and it's usually so full of knots that it's almost impossible to navigate without encountering at least one, which tends make the experience more painful than pleasurable.

Other-Scotland's hair is slightly less bristle-like, however, albeit not by any great degree. It makes Scotland wonder if perhaps shit hair is a universal constant; some essential truth of Scotlandness.

Such idle speculation helps delay the moment where Scotland has to begin considering cleaning points south of his head, but it can't prevent it. Even after drawing out every last step, eventually all of the necessary lathering, massaging, and rinsing is done, and the only place left to go is down.

Scotland lathers up a good sized dollop of shower gel (Zingy Lemon, half price at Asda a couple of weeks ago; Other-Scotland definitely has a good eye for a bargain), and then slaps his hands against his chest before he can think better of it.

The sensation is… not disagreeable. It's not particularly agreeable, either; it just feels like washing himself, really, which is something he regards as just part of the daily grind if he doesn't have company to liven up proceedings. It's not an activity he luxuriates in like some do – namely France, who can tie up a bath or shower for the best part of an hour if left to his own devices – but one he finds as mundane as brushing his teeth.

As such, the prospect of watching what he's doing carefully enough to ensure he does a thorough job doesn't seem quite so horrifying as before.

The first thing he notices upon risking a glance down, is that whilst Other-Scotland's chest is just as broad and well-covered with hair as Scotland's own, it's also liberally dotted with freckles. They make Scotland think of Wales, and how his brother would no doubt laugh himself hoarse upon seeing Scotland thus afflicted by them, given how often he's taken the piss out of Wales' over the centuries, and the way a fresh crop of them sprouts up, like daffodils, at the first sign of spring every year.

What gives Scotland real pause, and makes him stop his methodical scrubbing for a time, are the scars. A thin white line on one arm, deeper gouges to one leg, and plenty more besides, large and small. Their sheer abundance gives Scotland cause to worry for the wounds Other-Scotland's country must have had inflicted upon it, what he might see once he steps foot outside this house, and the possibility that their histories _were_ wildly divergent suddenly appears much more credible.

Their kind can be hurt by fists or weapons – not easily, but it is possible, especially if they're wielded by one of their own – but the wounds knit quickly, and, given time, will heal leaving no mark behind. Because, as Scotland has come to understand it, their bodies only scar when the injury to their land itself is so grievous, either physically or psychically, that it can never fully recover.

(France's back is still covered in a fine tracery of pale, silvery scars, but even they might yet fade when the last traces of the trenches which tore great furrows out of his fields do, and the soil washes completely clean of the blood of thousands which had once soaked it through.)

He's quite willing to admit that his understanding may well be flawed, however, as it's not as if anyone's ever written a book on the subject, though he's often wished that they had. What meagre knowledge he does have about his own nature and physiology has been pieced together haphazardly, built out of scraps of observation and hearsay. The ancients might have known more, but as Scotland's mum disappeared when he was barely out of the Iron Age equivalent of nappies, he was shit out of luck on that score. If she'd ever told him anything of the sort, it was lost in the murky haze which is all that remains of his memories from that time.

He lets his fingers tarry a little longer over the scars than elsewhere, fascinated by their differing textures, but even that academic interest feels a little vulgar, somehow, and he quickly moves on.

The whole process grinds to a halt when he finishes washing his stomach – far flatter than his own, but that's a state of affairs which isn't going to change until someone invents a low calorie lager that doesn't taste like day-old piss that's been filtered through a sweaty sock – and he reaches, as it were, the crux of the matter.

It's not as if it'd be the first time he's ever had a cock in his hand that wasn't either his own or France's, but his reluctance to touch the damn thing isn't born of any sort of nervousness, anyway. It's born from that strange dissonance between his mind and Other-Scotland's body, which makes it feel too close to be simply that of a stranger or even a friend, yet not close enough to be truly his.

Scotland suddenly realises that that feeling is actually a long-familiar one, as his brothers are the ones who stand at the threshold between the two, and he hasn't even _seen_ any of their cocks beyond a split-second glance past the times each one of them in turn got old enough to wash and dress themselves. As for touching any of them there?

Well, as soon as his mind makes the connection, his skin starts to feel like it's actively trying to flee from every point of contact between it and his hands, overcome by the same cringing sensation that had flowed over him that time he and Wales kissed.

He finds he can't bring himself to move his fingers even a fraction of an inch closer, and abruptly decides to skip that particular portion of his ablutions for today. It's not as if it will do Other-Scotland any lasting harm, after all, although, for his sake, Scotland can only hope that they're back in their own bodies before this time tomorrow, because he has a feeling that this might become a habit otherwise.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

  
Staring into a wardrobe is something he’s never done for more than a minute at a go. Not even at those points in history where England would insist upon him being presentable. It never mattered because he never cared about ruining one of England’s silly little functions, and it wasn't like Ireland and Wales ever did what they were told either. Years of the pair wearing brown and green everywhere proved that.

There is a difference right here and now though. He’s not attending some silly function, and he’s not dealing with a France he’s familiar with, he could just stick on that horrid grey jacket France got him and all would be well.

The situation he’s in right now requires some amount of deduction and he’s never been any good at that in regards to clothing. Indeed, England was only ever good at it because he had people to show him the fashions and pick things out.

Frankly, he thinks that he’s doing his alternate a massive favour. He could just throw any old tat on and actively make life difficult. But he refuses. For one thing, that Scotland likely has his body, and he suspects that good karma will be an aid in getting it back unmolested.

Secondly, he is dealing with France, and no matter what he might consider, there’s simply not enough mean spiritedness in him to not try and deliver what they might want, even if it’s neither his France nor HIM they really want.

Besides which, the simple matter here is that this version of him actually seems like he might be happy, and to strip somebody of that would just be a cruelty.

Much like staring at clothing is starting to become a cruelty to Scotland’s eyeballs. He has no clue, no way of judging whether these nice clothes are really what France might prefer, or if he’s into the grungy shit and all this nice stuff is here for the pleasure of the other Scotland, as fanciful as it seems, but he does doubt the interests of a man who’s got an aversion to tables.

Feet start to tap impatiently on the floor and his arms start to feel antsy and twitchy from standing still for so long. A quick brush of his stubble with a finger in contemplation and he suddenly notices something odd about the clothing at the end of the wardrobe, and when he shoves all else aside to examine it, he can see why.

This is obviously not clothing tailored for Scotland’s broad frame. So it must by default belong to France, and if it belongs to France then he can make a few deductions with his overburdened mind and hopefully not make a complete tit of himself.

Scotland it quick to close the door, gently so he won’t be heard, before he gets to work lifting each garment off the rail, giving it a turn and noting down the parameters of each as he sees them.

Tight cut.  
No stupid embroidery.  
Expensive looking labels.  
Range of colours.  
Trousers look snug.  
Simple cuts.  
Exquisite stitching.  
Nothing with paint on it.  
He’s not sure what that last thing is, possibly a scarf, disregard from calculations.

With everything set back in order he starts to paw through each item of the remaining clothing. He likes the kilts, but the suit looks a touch expensive, there are jumbles of odds and ends that look like they come from Primark, and a few he’s certain he owns himself, but they’re in different colours. There’s a warm coat for hiking that he considers borrowing, but only because the thought of wearing something that isn’t covered in paint and loose enough to accommodate his bending over seems like a horrid one.

He’s not wearing a suit.  
He’s not wearing a kilt, though he might like to. He feels a certain invitation to the unwanted within the very idea.  
Old T-shirts are appealing, but only to himself.  
He knows that the suit bag hanging here contains a formal dress kilt, though why he assumes so is worrying.  
A couple of silk shirts.  
A particularly fancy looking jacket.  
Some horrendous looking ties on the door.

His eyes skirt back to the silk shirts, they fit almost all the criteria, and it seems like a good choice, but they’re green and it’s a colour Scotland can’t get his head around wearing. It makes him look particularly Irish and frankly he can’t work out why there’s so much of this colour lurking in the closet at all.

He’s quick to life one of the shirts out, to try and find a better reason not to wear it than the fact he simply doesn’t like the colour. The cut seems nice, the stitching holds when he gives it a small test tug and a look at the label makes his wallet hurt despite the fact he hasn’t even found one lying around. It seems to be exactly what he’s looking for.

Shit.

He moves on before he changes his mind and decides to remedy his problem of all these green items by passive aggressively throwing it all out and adding to his note that green is a silly colour for anyone to wear.

Moreover it makes him think of his older brother's apparent love of stupid T-shirts with shamrocks on them, which are hideous even by Scotland’s abysmal standards.

A diagnosis of all the trousers in here, leads him to one pair, but only because he thinks the stitching might be a little better and the Primark label promises nothing but comfort as well as a modicum of style, or something.

They get set out too.

His hand lingers slightly, just between the two jackets. Common sense tells him to take one just in case. His experience tells him that at some point France will send him outside to fetch him something from the shop that he had no idea they needed, because it wasn’t on the list last time and he’ll likely be sent back a few times as well, because he’s particularly shit at getting just the right brand.

Even when he calls Northern Ireland for assistance from the Google he still senses some apprehension from France as to the quality of his carefully selected Canadian wine or the ripeness of the tomatoes he slaved over studying.  It makes him feel dejected just to think about it; an unending steam of self doubt and insecurity that France likely thinks he’s completely stupid, and is utterly unsatisfied and ready to up and leave at a moments notice if he doesn’t do something quick!

The realisation that he’s balled up his fist so tight that it’s shaking, and that he’s caught between an expression of fury and utter dejection that threatens to start putting creases on this face that really shouldn’t be there is enough to make him press his fingers tight against the crook of his brow and his nose, and to trail his other hand out into a circle, taking care to focus on the small symbols he draws in the air, and the way he bends his ring and little finger against his palm.

It doesn’t do anything, but it helps drain the anxiety that swims about in his head, freeing him up just enough to look towards the chest of drawers that sits where it always has, and to approach it like he might be trying to catch the thing so he can cook and eat it.

The underwear on hand here is bountiful at the very least, even if he feels cautious about touching it. He knows it’s childish, but he’s never worn somebody else’s knickers before and he’s doesn’t understand those who enjoy doing so.  He throws on a pair of boxers under his towel and gets to work hunting out some socks.

They appear to not all be green, a small miracle he thinks as he shoves any old pair on he can find. Then he gets to work tugging on the trousers. The bloody things are just tight enough to be uncomfortable and he’s suddenly aware of his stomach, which sticks out a little more than he remembers it doing.

Bloody hell. What in the name of Christ is he doing to himself?

What in the name of Christ has THIS poor sod been doing to himself?

The jeans at least seem not so uncomfortable as to give him an excuse to tear them off and toss them out the window, though it’s tempting, he simply gets to work finding some deodorant, yanking on the shirt and analysing his now dry hair in the mirror.

He’s not sure he can do much with that. This hair seems to be much like his own and he could never get that to do more than sit in a rough shape and then stick out like it hasn’t been combed once in its life. Northern Ireland did something with it once, but Scotland doesn’t remember what that was.

He settles for trying to paw it into a shape he can recognise, but it doesn’t skim across his brow like his own, nor does it respond to being brushed backwards and when he ruffles it up completely he gives himself something that looks like a bed of weeds and a mangy cat had offspring.

The amount of fixing he finds himself involved in is so enormous that he doesn’t even realise he’s edged too close to the mirror until it starts to steam up, and even then it looks no tidier, and he’s not sure if what he had this morning was just bed head or the remnants of the usual style.

Right, he needs something to go by, he decides. A photograph will do nicely if he can find one. He’s sure he saw a few somewhere, but he didn’t dare stop to scrutinise, nor does he want to run into France and get caught making off with a photo from the wall and have to explain himself.

A hunt through each of the drawers offers no luck, but he does find some hankies that have a strange aura about them, and the wardrobe only helps him uncover a few bits of hiking gear that he’s sure he’s stored by his desk and the stuff in the space his desk once was, was in the cupboard, and he’s starting to hate this game.

Further prying leads only to him abandoning whatever fond feelings he might be having over the apparent similarities he and his doppleganger might possibly have and to bark with laughter at the discovery of some especially hideous wool jumpers, decorated respectively with a dead squirrel, what looks to him like a constipated dinosaur, and a Saltire that has more in common with a stripe of toothpaste that someone’s dribbled excessively down their front than to any flag.

Scotland folds them up again and sets them back, feeling at least a little more amused and upon looking at his reflection, his hair seems to have settled into what looks like a decent enough shape.

He quickly closes the door to the wardrobe after pulling out a jacket and easing himself out of the room.

He has a lot of snooping to do and the sooner he gets it out of the way the better.

 

  


* * *

His exploration of what appears to be some sort of study at least brings him into the company of an atlas; the atlas of Britain and the world to be exact. Which means Britain is still around, and they still call it ‘the world’, both revelations that comfort more than they should comfort any normal person.

He flicks it open and checks each border obsessively. Scotland, Wales, Ireland, Northern Ireland and England all remain stubbornly where they were before. The Isle of Man is unchanged and a closer inspection of the world map reveals only a sheet of paper with handwriting on it, detailing each nation's level of relation to Wales and how single they appear to be.

Scotland decides to close the book and put it to the back of his mind, because frankly it sounds like something Wales might do if given the idea and he’s not sure if he’s upset about his brothers stupidity or overcome with some small amount of remorse over his last spoken words to his brother being, ‘I don’t really want any of you here, you’re all tossers.’

He supposes it hardly matters anyway. Decides it’s because Wales is incredibly stupid and gets to work poking at the computer, supposing it might be a valuable source of information. He can use the Google to find out things he supposes and root through all the documents and folders in search of anything illuminating to his situation.

But that will take time and he’s too impatient at the moment.

Turning back to study the room draws his eyes up towards a mass of photographs. He’s spooked by what he finds there, most everything seems familiar, he can pick out America and Canada up there, though they’re both just different enough in posture and expression to be creepy. Just familiar enough in the face to warrant being poked at, as if the frame might be lying to him.

Why there are so many photographs up there is a mystery to him. He only has a few, and prefers not to let anyone see them. He doesn’t recall having a single one on show, apart from one of France that England has hidden somewhere and refuses to be return.

And speaking of England, there’s a photograph there that looks hauntingly familiar. It solidifies in his mind, and rather firmly at that, that whatever is going on around here, he’s finding it suddenly much creepier, because the rest of his brothers appear to have gone missing in the sea of faces. Including his own.

And he starts to wonder just what on earth is going on.

If everyone else is up there, then Wales, Ireland and Northern Ireland’s should be too, and his own one too.

He can’t find Mannin, Cornwall, Guernsey or Jersey. It’s like they’ve all just disappeared He does think for a second that he recognises a single woman there, but her face is a distant one. One he’s sure he’s seen, but who she could be, and why she’s more important to all this than Scotland or the rest of the family?

He simply chooses to ignore it for the time being. Believe he’s mistaken and that all the faces are more different than he thinks they are, it’s only a sense of familiarity that tricks him into believing otherwise.

He is offered a welcome sight though, he appears to have located a table! Even if the ruddy computer is sitting on it, he still feels strangely in awe. The papers are no more interesting than when he received them himself and stuck them to his fridge in the hope that he’d remember to do them or left on his desk in a more pressing hope that they’d simply go missing if he left them long enough.

Which, rather ironically, they had.


	3. Chapter 3

**30th December 2012; Dublin, Ireland; 3.45pm**  
  
  
He doesn’t remember inviting France along, though France has been insisting that is the case all morning, and has the nerve to seem so much fresher than Ireland, who's certain he’s travelled enough the past few days to last him till the middle of the new year.  
  
France even went to the precaution of booking his own bloody ticket, a feat so monstrously clever that Ireland can’t even hold it against the man. And now he just seems content to study Ireland's home and wait around till something happens. The level of study has turned to Ireland's crockery, all illustrated with pictures of horses and other things that don’t make Ireland feel completely miserable.  
  
Ireland simply makes a point of leaving to pack his bag and allowing France to have his nose about, while wondering what exactly happened at that party that caused him to ever think of inviting France, why France never reminded him about it, and if Scotland is already aware.  
  
He must be, of course; it seems like France must have asked somebody’s permission at some point. But why he’d fly OVER Edinburgh to come to Dublin and get locked in a boat and car for half a day?  
  
He’s often wondered why France does most things, which largely seem to involve trying to talk Ireland into either sleeping with him, or else indulge in some form of threesome involving anyone else France could possibly get his hands on.  
  
Quite literally.  
  
It’s only now that Ireland folds up his last T-shirt, double checks his passport and that he’s printed his tickets out this time and not forgotten (like that one time he had to go with England, and the complaining had been so completely monumental that Ireland was certain it had literally triggered the volcano that made them completely incapable of getting home afterwards).  
  
Which in turn had caused much more complaining.  
  
He’s certain everything is in order: warm clothes, comfy clothes, something nice if the family decide to try and go somewhere they might be seen by actual people, his wash bag, a map and a spare pair of thick boots just in case Scotland decides to drag him up into the highlands for a hike or to bury a few bodies or something.  
  
He feels like he’s forgotten something, though, and leans back on his bed to stare at the ceiling in thought.  
  
He becomes aware of the phone in his pocket and proceeds to pull it out, browsing the names contained within, it doesn’t take long to hit on Scotland's and he hits the dial button.  
  
Nothing happens at the other end, and Ireland assumes Scotland’s got it turned off.  
  
He’ll try again soon enough.  
  
As such he lifts his bag and coat, and marches out of the room to stuff them into the boot of his car.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
**Dublin Docks; 6:00 pm**  
  
  
Ireland realises the thing he’s forgotten as he’s standing by the car puffing his cigarette and becoming increasingly aware of the way France now stands beside him, body shivering slightly in the cold foggy air and teeth chattering as plumes of mist erupt from his mouth like smoke.  
  
He had reminded himself to bring France a decent bloody coat, because the other nation seems to forget how cold it can get around the British Isles. More likely, however, he just likes the way his clothing looks too much to even thing of carting around some heavy coat. Hopefully, Scotland will have a spare one, or Wales or England will happen to bring two along that Ireland can casually rob them of in a bid that he neither find himself in the awkward position of giving his coat away all the time or allowing France to muscle up close to him and mooch heat like he’s been doing at meetings so often these days.  
  
Especially if Ireland and Germany happen to stand along side each other, turning it into a sort of sandwich that the bread is a little reluctant to be any part of, yet unwilling to escape because such an act is not only treasonous to the other slice but only makes the filling more determined to keep a hold.  
  
Ireland certainly doesn’t want to encourage France to cosy up to him; he might enjoy it if he wasn’t so aware of Scotland’s feelings, yet also horribly aware of his own little soft spot for France. He doesn’t love him to be sure – he hasn’t truly been in love for a long time – but fondness is the seed that love grows from, and he has plenty of that where France is concerned.  
  
It only takes the wrong words, kind actions or warm thoughts to encourage fondness to grow.  
  
And if Ireland allows that fondness to grow, it will eventually manage to suffocate his brother's feelings where they lie dormant and unappreciated.  
  
Which is something he simply cannot allow.  
  
Even as France takes a little step closer to him and complains about the weather being so miserable, refuses to get back into the car and put the heat on.  
  
Ireland clutches his cigarette in his mouth and eases his coat off before slinging it over France's shoulders. The cold instantly starts to bite into his bare arms.  
  
“Merci, _Irelande_ ,” France says, smiling up at him fondly, and Ireland curses his own sense of good nature. Constantly battling against what he knows to be true: that he shouldn’t encourage France even though his subconscious mind keeps tricking him into doing so.  
  
“I think I’m going to get a cup of tea from one of the machines in the terminal,” Ireland says, already sliding away from the car and taking a long stride to get as much distance between himself and France as he can; his usual tactic when choosing a place to sit at meetings or grabbing lunch.  
  
Yet France predictably seems able to clutch his arm.  
  
“We may as well go together, non?” France assures him, his blond hair getting caught on the winter breeze and causing his cheeks to grow slightly ashen. Ireland just doesn’t have the energy or strength of character he needs to tell France no.  
  
“Alright then,” he says, managing at least to pull his arm free and occupy his hand with the task of smoking. The soft burning in his throat proves a pleasant distraction from France's presence.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
  
**P &O Ferry; 7.00pm**

  
  
Hazel eyes consider the bottle of brandy on the shelf of the duty free, and Ireland’s not sure if he’s hoping to buy it for Scotland as some sort of apology, or smack France around the head with it, because his company has become more and more suffocating as time has rolled past.  
  
And yet he patiently puts up with France talking to him about something which came up at the EU meetings last March that everyone else has since forgotten about, or reminding Ireland that he should get his haircut, because it’s looking a little shaggy, or that his choice of clothing just isn’t flattering to his figure.  
  
Ireland wasn’t aware he had a figure before France thought to bring it up, and he’s now caught himself looking into a mirror trying to pick out where his T-shirt and jeans are doing him a major disservice.  
  
“Green doesn’t match your eyes,” France tells him, stuffing a brown jacket with handsome blue trims into his hands without a second thought. “Blue and brown match your hazel eyes, black and brown would emphasise your black hair, so you should wear brown.”  
“Brown?” Ireland says, looking down at the jacket and feeling unsure how much attention he should be paying to this.  
  
“Brown," France says again. “If you wear a brown jacket you can wear green underneath it to complement the hazel. Blue and black will make your hair seem darker.”  
  
“I thought you didn’t like brown.”  
  
“I don’t like it when Dylan wears too MUCH brown,” France says, urging Ireland into trying the jacket on and patting it down when he finally does. “He needs to wear blacks to make his hair seem lighter, then his eyes would look brighter. Red warms his complexion and green makes him seem a little pale and sickly. You suit green better.”  
  
“You just said I shouldn’t wear green.”  
  
“I said you should wear more brown,” France says, sounding a little haughty. “Green and brown match your eyes, green on its own doesn’t.” France quickly spins Ireland around and makes him observe himself in the mirror. “You’re also too tall to wear baggy T-shirts, you look lanky. Tighter cuts on the leg will make you look slimmer, and a trim cut around the chest and torso will improve your proportions.”  
  
Ireland is too scared to admit that he doesn’t understand a word of that because France might try to explain it all again.  
  
“So, brown then?” he asks.  
  
“ _Oui_ , Niall, brown,” France says, though he pauses before he continues to browse the variety of tea towels on offer, as if considering getting one for England as some sort of peace offering. “Or Black.”  
  
All Ireland knows is that for whatever reason the brown jacket does seem to suit him, and it’s only the price tag that causes him to wince and set it back, even though it does have DUBLIN written across the back in big bold letters, and he does need a new jacket at some point.  
  
But he can always get one somewhere a hell of a lot cheaper than the shop on the ferry, and he turns his attention back to the bottle of brandy, with a new option making itself available on the checklist.  
  
Drink that shit himself and see if it makes time go a bit faster.  
  
But first he pulls out his phone and checks to see if Scotland has bothered to call him back.  
  
He hasn’t.  
  
Ireland decides to get his brother the brandy and then see if he can reach him on the phone while France is nice and distracted.  
  


 

* * *

  
  
**The Ferry; 10.00pm**

  
  
The phone remains silent again and Ireland quickly considers calling the rest of the family instead. He’s aware, however, that there won’t be any way of getting England near Scotland’s house if he knows France is there. Which goes against the point of the whole bloody exercise. Luckily, the boat ride is almost over, and France is enjoying a mug of coffee and appears to be checking over the items in his P&O bag.  
  
Ireland decides not to ask as he finishes licking the stray crumbs of croissant off his finger and gets to work pouring the last of his tea.  
  
“How come you wanted to come see us all anyway?” he asks slowly, making a noise of disapproval when half his tea dribbles down the spout and pools on the saucer.  
  
“I don’t need an excuse to see my five favourite brothers,” France coos. “Especially not when we'll get to spend so much time together.”  
  
France casually rests his hand on Ireland's knee, leaving it there a second too long before wrapping himself into Ireland's side and leaning against him as nice as you like. It leaves Ireland's poor right arm without the ability to lift the mug and he feels suddenly a little suffocated and burdened with an excess of sweat and lust from Frances constant little touches and smouldering remarks that have just about got him fit to burst.  
  
His left arm takes the mug of tea, and he drains it in one long slow motion before allowing himself to shift downwards on his seat and attempt to get comfortable.  
  
“I’m going to get a little sleep before I have to drive all the way to bloody Edinburgh,” Ireland says, allowing France to make a soft noise of agreement and he gently rearranges the lay of Ireland's hair with his fingers and mutters something in French that Ireland doesn’t understand as he nestles just a little closer and seems to allow himself to be treated like a pillow.

 

* * *

 

  
**31st December, 2012; M6 Motorway near Milton Keynes, England**   


 

Milton Keynes is fast approaching, and England has yet to be struck by the need to leave anyone at the side of the motorway; a state of affairs he finds vaguely disquieting.

Normally, he and whichever of his brothers were present would still be embroiled in a heated discussion regarding which radio station they should listen to – an argument that has, on occasion, lasted them all the way up to Birmingham, off and on – but there hadn't been a single objection raised when England tuned into Radio Four and John Humphry's soothing tones filled the car. There was, and still is, complete silence from the backseat, where Romano has fallen asleep, and both Northern Ireland and Iceland are listening to their iPods, whilst, in Northern Ireland's case, radiating an aura of sullen discontent at the world and everything within it.

Wales is just as silent, but seems to be in a better mood, at least, judging by the faint smile he's been sporting since they finished negotiating the M25; one that England finds has grown progressively more irritating ever since.

When that faint smile is joined by the humming of an upbeat tune, the last frayed thread of England's last nerve finally snaps, and he asks, "What the hell are you so happy about?"

Wales closes his eyes and sighs, the soft exhalation making his fine hair flutter around his face. "Maybe I was enjoying the peace and quiet whilst I could? Or maybe," he pauses, for what England can only assume is dramatic effect, "I might actually be looking forward to tonight."

England snorts derisively. "I can't see why. Hogmanay's always a fucking shower."

"As onerous familial obligations go, I don't think it's _too_ painful," Wales says. "Even you've got to admit it's usually better than Christmas."

There is, unfortunately, no denying that. Perhaps it's something inherent in the exchanging of gifts, or even just three days of enforced proximity, but Christmas seems to bring out the worst in all of them. Not a year goes by that they don't end Boxing Day vowing to celebrate separately the next, but as the months roll on, memories fade, and England, against his better judgement, starts to let his hopes become buoyed by the lies of festive unity and joy on the telly as December sets in, and tradition eventually wins out over good sense.

He has no such fanciful expectations concerning Scotland's recent Hogmanay celebrations; he presumes from the outset that they will result in a drunken brawl, and thus far, he has yet to be disappointed.

"Usually," England admits grudgingly. "But, even by those low standards, last year was still pretty bloody appalling. North and I had to spend _three hours_ out in the sodding garage persuading Scotland that it would be a bad idea to rip out Romano's spine and beat him to death with it."

Wales' mouth pinches tight, which makes his voice sound a little harsh, his words slightly clipped. "Well, he was very drunk, and on wine, too. That always turns him into even more of a belligerent wanker than usual. If we steer him towards the whisky instead, he should be okay."

England rather thinks that blame lies with Romano's loudly picking fault with every single aspect of Scotland's home and arrangements, but demurs from mentioning so, as Wales has been remarkably short tempered about similar accusations of late. "Maybe so," he says placatingly before assaying, "though it does still seem a little risky to invite him along again, nevertheless. Just in case Scotland does get on the wine again, despite our best efforts."

"If _Yr Alban_ didn't want him there, then he shouldn't have said we could bring whoever we liked," Wales says sharply.  

"I wish he hadn't," England says, feeling inexorably drawn towards glaring at Iceland's reflection in the rear view mirror again.

Wales' eyes flick towards England's face then the mirror, and he groans. "Jesus, _Lloegr_ , not this again. Look, he seems like a nice enough lad to me, and –"

"Yes, he is nice enough as long as fish aren't involved," England hisses, lowering his voice in case Iceland doesn't listen to his iPod cranked up as high as it will go like Northern Ireland does, "but he still has…" England stops himself from saying hands just in time, knowing now that Wales doesn't consider that as weighty a problem as he ought. "North's still too young for… For whatever it is they get up to that I don't wish to think about."

Wales chuckles in an entirely unsympathetic way. "He's nearly a hundred."

"When we were that age, we were barely even able to walk on our own."

"And yet _he's_ got the mind and body of a teenager," Wales says, shrugging one shoulder. "Fucking hell, our adolescence stretched through the entire Late Middle ages, so I'm sure you haven't forgotten what it felt like. If someone had told you then that you couldn't –"

All the animation drains away from Wales' face, and he closes his mouth with a sharp click of teeth, as he remembers, presumably, that he himself had told England that he _couldn't_. England imagines Wales' own memories of burgeoning sexuality are filled with kissing rosy cheeked farmer's daughters behind hayricks and the mild frustrations of gently spurned advances, but his own are nothing but guilt, fear, and praying night after night for a release from the unwelcome desires that he feared he wouldn't be strong enough to resist.

England wouldn't wish even a fraction of that upon Northern Ireland, and he supposes he's glad that his little brother hasn't either fixated his attentions on humans, or imprinted like a duckling on the first undeserving bastard with a pretty smile that gave him the time of day, but, even with all of that good fortune considered, he still can't force himself to be _happy_ about the situation. Iceland is simply one symptom of a larger disease, whose causative agent, England's convinced, was Northern Ireland's move to his own flat in Belfast.

"North used to love riding in this car," England says; a complete non-sequitur, he's sure, to Wales, but the thought lies at the side of the path that his mind has begun travelling down, regardless. "He used to beg me to take him along whenever I took it anywhere, and then, when I did, he could barely sit still. Always trying to look out of all the windows at once, and asking me, 'Engwand, can I dwive?' every few minutes."

Wales' tentative smile – doubtless born from relief that their conversation seems to have taken a swift U-turn away from the dangerous direction it was taking – grows suddenly into a broad grin. " _Gogledd_ never talked like that, _Lloegr_. Are you sure you're not thinking about one of the weans? Or a film, perhaps, because I'm fairly certain none of them did either."

England's brothers appear to have a knack for tainting every single good memory he's foolish enough to share with them, and so Wales' laughter feels especially grating. "Fuck off, Wales," he growls.

The next road sign informs him that they're still two miles shy of the turnoff for Milton Keynes, and if Wales doesn't shut up soon, England decides, he's going to discover that he isn't immune to roadside abandonment himself.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; A garage just outside London; England**   


 

After filling the car with unleaded petrol and buying a supply of mints, England and Wales had decided unanimously that to avoid conversation of all kinds the radio should be put on. Early morning radio is often a bit tedious and soon Northern Ireland grows tired of listening to rock music that he’s certain is even older than he is. As such he finally opens his mouth.

“Change the station. The Kinks are shit,” he says, earning a small look of disgust from England who narrows his eyes almost threateningly.

“There’s nothing wrong with them,” England says.

“They’re so OLD,” Northern Ireland hisses, leaning forward to see if perhaps his arm might be long enough to reach the radio, but he can tell it’s not. “Put on something modern!”

“Modern?” England says, scoffing and folding his arms stubbornly. “The sixties were the best time for music.” He ignores the way Wales tuts and rolls his eyes. “The song’s almost over at any rate.”

“Well thank fuck,” Northern Ireland says. “Sunny afternoon, my arse.”

The song that comes on next is unsurprisingly something by The Rolling Stones. He’d normally be just fine with that, hell he can even enjoy the Kinks in the right situation (Such as ON A SUNNY AFTERNOON) but he’s been in England’s house for so long that he feels adrift on a sea of old music that does nothing but inflate England’s sense of nostalgia for a time period that Northern Ireland really didn’t enjoy at all.

“Put something else on,” Northern Ireland demands again, a little louder this time.

“You like the Stones, and this is a fantastic song at any rate.”

“You’re aware that Brown Sugar is a song about rape, I assume,” Wales points out.

England struggles for a response before glaring around the car in annoyance. “I don’t see what you both have against these bands. They’re from a time when people actually played guitars and could sing without bloody auto tune.”

“I don’t have a problem with it,” Wales says. “I’m just saying the theme of this particular song is a little iffy.”

“Good luck finding a song from the sixties that doesn’t have a squiffy moral behind it,” Northern Ireland says with a snort.

“I particularly like the one about junkies getting drugs off our health service. That’s a cracker,” Wales says.

England glares at him with a grinding of teeth. “Right you’ve made your point,” he says before his expression lifts hopefully. “Say, do you remember when we decided to form a band in the sixties? I played guitar and you did the singing.”

Wales doesn’t respond, and only sinks in his seat in what looks like embarrassment. “I remember you cut our hair to look like the Beatles, fucking horrendous.”

England ignores his older brothers prolonged muttering about why he even puts up with such stupidity and that he should have never agreed to this because travelling is a crock of shit. Instead England turns his attention to Northern Ireland, whose expression has shifted to one of wide eyed amusement, and being completely affronted.

“You know we were quite good actually,” England says. “We were very successful!”

“I really don’t think playing in a bar for a night and people not booing you really counts as being successful,” Northern Ireland says, remembering the atrocious haircuts rather more vividly than he wishes he could. “I remember because I was there.”

“You’re obviously remembering it a little wrong because-”

“And I was there in the eighties too, when captain ponytail over there wore all that face paint and had hair like somebody stuck his dick in an electrical socket.”

“It was the fashion,” Wales says, sinking even lower, his face starting to redden.

“No, it was just really, fucking, stupid,” Northern Ireland says.

England can’t help laughing so loud that it momentarily blots out the radio. “You did look ridiculous, with the dragon themed, whatever that was,” he says, waggling his hands over his torso.

“Shut it,” Wales warns him.

“I don’t know what you’re so fucking amused for anyway," Northern Ireland says, allowing England a flinch before he seems to realise where this is going and sinks into his seat, too. “You managed to turn your hair green and wore so many chains you sounded like an old ladies purse.”

“Right, we’re getting off the subject,” England says, ignoring Northern Ireland's judgemental eyes. “And just for that you can just fucking listen to more sixties music.”

“Oh, for fuck's sake,” Northern Ireland grits out. “You’re such an old fart.”

“I refuse to take that from somebody whose classification of music includes a bunch of Nordic people shouting and plucking on fiddles!”

“It’s folk metal, and it’s fucking amazing. You wanker.”

“It’s crass and you play it far too loud,” England barks back.

“Oh like you don’t pump up Jimi Hendrix to stupid levels. I can’t stand Jimi Hendrix by the way.” Northern Ireland snarls the lie out like it’s giving him terrible gas. “Nonsensical bullshit.”

“I beg your pardon!” England says, just about ready to undo his seatbelt and attempt to clamber into the back seat so this argument can become a hell of a lot more personal.”

“You heard me.”

It carries on that way for about fifteen minutes as Wales slowly loses his ability to ignore them. England’s voice hit’s a certain pitch when he’s livid that refuses to stay out of the ear canal and let Wales enjoy the Chopin music playing in his head. Northern Ireland's accent is hardly any better, unforgivably harsh and sounding like somebody trying to strangle the life out of a cat while rubbing it vigorously down a blackboard.

“You’re an insufferable little shit,” England reminds Northern Ireland, because he always does at times like these.

“Fuck off,” Northern Ireland barks back.

Wales can barely stand it as they delve deeper and deeper into insults that are particularly vicious; ‘cock sucking bastard’ and ‘insidious little prick’ popping up at least twice during the course until Wales can stand their voices no longer and hits a button on his radio, turning the volume up as far as it can go.

A loud high shriek of violins bursts through the lively argument, and causes his little brothers to go silent and clutch their hands over their ears in surprise.

“One more word from either of you and it’ll stay this loud the entire fucking way!” Wales snarls. “I don’t care if we all go deaf because frankly it’d be an improvement!”

England and Northern Ireland exchange wary glances, but remain silent as Wales lowers the volume and heaves out a few cleansing breaths.

“So we’re listening to classical music?” Northern Ireland asks cautiously.

“It’s cleansing to the spirit, it’s relaxing, and it’s my bloody car so you can belt up.”

“If you’re too bloody relaxed you’ll likely fall asleep and kill us all,” England points out.

Wales is only satisfied in the knowledge that they’ve lowered their voices a great deal, which was all he wanted from them.

“Also, this music is older than the dinosaurs,” Northern Ireland says, though Wales can only attempt to loosen his grip on the steering wheel and pretend he never heard that. “And it sounds like unicorn barf.”

“England, turn the news on.” Wales says with a final grinding of his teeth and a moment of joy when his brother does as asked and the news dribbles out of the radio in soft pleasant words of speech.

[And in sport, it's bad news for England in the football this week as they lose to-]

England promptly turns the radio off and gets to work opening the bag of mints.

“Why don’t we all just sit in silence?” he says finally. The scenery rolls by, familiar and steady and England makes a point of picking out all the little things that have changed. Though there’s still no depletion to the number of traffic cones spread about the place.

“That suits me just fine,” Wales says, free to turn on the Chopin again and focus on his driving.

The silence lingers uneasily for a few miles, with only the rustling of the bag of mint imperials and the sound of the motor to add to the soundtrack. Northern Ireland takes one of the mints and slowly unwraps it, before popping it into his mouth and glaring at his brothers in lingering annoyance.

“Why are we going to Scotland’s this year anyway?” Northern Ireland asks suddenly, startling England and Wales into peering at him curiously. “And why did you invite Ireland? He’s an arsehole.”

England sees Wales start to tense up and instantly prickle as he always does when this subject arises.

“North, if you want to be useful then see if you can’t whip me up some tea back there.”

Wales starts to relax slightly, focusing on the route they travel so often back and forth from Scotland’s house, and as time rolls by and silence looms once more England feels his jaw start to slacken, his eyes to drift towards Wales in hopes of conversation of some kind because not having a conversation going with his older brother seems suddenly rather painful.

“Why did you invite Ireland?” England asks finally when the question finally refuses to sit still. “He is a bit of an arse.”

“England, please don’t test my patience while I’m driving,” Wales warns. “My insurance will cover me if we swerve into a lake and you both drown.”

England rolls his eyes and folds his arms.

“Oh, bloody hell!” Northern Ireland yelps from the back, and England peers around at him as Wales glances nervously into the rear view mirror.

“What’s wrong?”

“Spilled half a fucking cup of boiling water on my lap.”

“Well that was stupid of you.” Wales points out.

“Fuck off, Wales,” Northern Ireland grumbles as he shoves a small plastic cup through the gap in the front seat, allowing England to take it gratefully. He waits a moment for peace to settle in, before he opens his mouth again. “Hey, England?” he asks, earning an interested noise from his contented older brother. “Are we there yet?”

“I swear we’re not taking him places any more after this,” Wales grumbles as he manages to unwrap a mint with one hand and pop it into his mouth.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

  
Thankfully, there isn't anything immediately obvious within the wardrobe that screams 'Private!' or 'For Other-Scotland's Eyes Only! (And the Fact That You're Currently in Possession of His Eyeballs Just Doesn't Cut the Mustard, Scotland!)'. There's just a selection of clothes that look wonderfully comfortable (albeit considerably despoiled by paint splatters) and much like he'd buy himself barring the interference of pernicious outside influences who seem to have very little concern for the health of his bank balance.

As he pulls out a particularly cosy-looking pair of well worn jeans, the shifting of the hangers reveals a sleeve that catches his attention; not because of its colour (a rather uninspiring grey), but because of its buttons and trimming, both of which stand out as being of far higher quality than anything that surrounds them, even to Scotland's unrefined eye. As such things always do, it reminds Scotland of France, and he discovers himself dragging out the jacket attached before the observation has even finished bleeding through from the more reptilian parts of his brain into the conscious ones.

The faint scent that wafts from the fabric as it moves is the most familiar thing that Scotland's encountered thus far today. It's France's favourite cologne, and Scotland only just catches himself in time, throwing the jacket down on the bed behind him so he doesn't crush it against his nose. That would be, he thinks, a pretty monumental fucking backslide into behaviour that he's only just managed to train himself out of: the wallowing in tiny shreds and hints of France's presence in his life, which, before, were the only parts he was ever allowed to hold on to.

Besides, he's only been without him for a couple of hours, for fuck's sake, and even if he were back home right now, France would likely still be dead to the world, anyway. If Scotland's stuck here for more than a week, then he might allow himself a quick sniff of the lapels, but giving in _now_ would just be pathetic.

Almost as pathetic as the realisation that there's something else he hadn't even thought to consider before, but the jacket's presence confirms. France is part of Other-Scotland's life in some capacity, and involved enough therein to be attempting to meddle with what passes for his dress sense. It's slightly embarrassing to admit that France apparently also makes up part of his perceived universal constant of Scotlandness, but after almost twelve hundred years in love with the guy, it's not much of a surprise, either. It's also something else Scotland won't be disclosing when he gets back to his own universe, as what France doesn't know won't swell his already robustly sized ego yet further.

What the jacket doesn't reveal, however, is just _how_ close Other-Scotland and Other-France might be. Scotland hopes that it's the level of the odd phone call, annual catch-up over drinks, and the exchanging of gifts at Christmas, because if France is going to be a regular fixture in his life whilst he's stuck here, smelling the same and perhaps even looking the same, then keeping his hands to himself, as Scotland knows he must, will be an exercise in torture.

Though not quite so arduous, he supposes, if he's had sufficient chance to prepare himself for the eventuality. A quick scan of the rest of the wardrobe reveals nothing that might shed any further illumination on the likelihood that France – or indeed any other person – spends a significant amount of time in Other-Scotland's home, however, save perhaps a couple of smart looking blue shirts which also have a distinctive French aura about them.

Beyond them, the sole thing that stands out is the preponderance of hiking gear, but only because it makes Scotland remember that the reason he was picking out clothes in the first place was that he's overdue for his morning constitutional. (Which, although still essential for easing Scotland into the day, are rather shorter than when he lived with England, where they would last until lunchtime, after which the gentle, lengthy stroll to aid his digestion would begin.)

The chest of drawers yields boxers which feel a little too loose around Scotland's middle, a T-shirt and jumper which seem just the right size, and thankfully, no little tin home largely to bits of tat which were imbued with a hell of a lot more sentimental value by their curator than their original owner, who had discarded them all with without a second thought. The absence of the tin isn't conclusive proof of anything, however, as Other-Scotland might just as easily hoard his own sad stash of France mementos elsewhere than not own any at all.

(Scotland has been meaning to throw his own out for some time, or perhaps even burn them in some grand gesture which would put a definite full stop to the end of the period of his life where all he had to show for a relationship which had lasted almost a century was kept in a tin small enough to fit in his fucking underwear drawer. He can't quite seem to bring himself to do so, however, despite the fact he never looks at any of it anymore, not even to read the letters (having memorised every single word of them long-since, including the excruciatingly earnest poem, which was something of a struggle to plough through as it had the distinctive hallmarks of Wales' interference writ into each turgid line).)

Pulling on the jeans he picked out earlier, he resolves to uncover the whereabouts of Other-Scotland's keys before the house has the chance to become stifling like his own always does when he delays his usual walk for too long. With any luck, he'll also chance across Other-Scotland's mobile and wallet in the process, and then he can treat himself to breakfast at the little greasy spoon café a few streets away before attempting to call his other-siblings again. He's not even going to contemplate the possibility of it not existing, because if this is a universe without their bacon, sausage and fried egg sandwiches, then he's never going to be able to pry Other-Scotland out of his own once he tries them for the first time.

Which he will do, no doubt, if he's unsettled enough by their swap to believe France's lies about how a bowl of the gritty birdseed crap he's been trying to persuade Scotland to eat for the past few months is actually a viable substitute for a meal.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

The small modification Scotland’s made to the bed is a good one. It’s no longer green, and while purple isn’t his favourite colour, he simply prefers it over any of the other colours he’d seen in the little drawer under the bed, reluctantly pulled open in hopes that a detailed explanation of how things work around here might lurk inside. Or a wallet. That would be fine too.

But only duvet covers, and a single upset house spider, had emerged.

Which was just as good.

Sitting on the bed makes him realise one thing: while he might otherwise not be afraid of anything, he’s wary about going near France and messing things up and he’s not sure if it’s entirely out of concern for his alternative self, or if he just doesn’t want to be a source of disappointment to France.

A France who doesn’t know him, and will therefore be incredibly relieved when his old Scotland comes back and actually starts acting like himself. Hopefully the opposite will be true in his case.

And upon folding up the spent bed linen and shoving it into a hamper, he begins to wonder just what he should do next. He can’t avoid France forever, but to just walk out there and start saying anything or doing anything is possibly not to his favour. He’s looked through all the rooms upstairs though and found out very little about how to do either of those things.

Downstairs might have more on offer but he’s sure France is down there. He’d love to just go and just explain what was going on and lay down the ground rules from there, yet it hardly seems like the most viable option right at this period in time.

‘Hello there, I don’t want you to be too nervous or amused when I tell you that I’m actually not your Scotland, but I am a Scotland and I’m temporarily stuck in your Scotland’s body. Sorry for the fucking inconvenience.’

That, he is willing to assume, would be a terrible idea.

He decides after a moments thought that lurking about in here is really not the way to do this. If he’s stuck here, then he’s stuck and he’ll learn more by just trying his best and getting on with things, all deeply ingrained worries about France be damned.

The thought does come to him however that he might get by a hell of a lot easier if he can find a wallet, a phone, and some keys. A phone might be especially useful. If there’s even a small chance he could get through to his brothers, then they might be able to help somehow.

He doesn’t see any such items lurking anywhere in the room and the thought crosses his mind that such things might just be buried in the recesses of one of his alternate's coat pockets, hidden in his hiking gear, lurking in the back of the wardrobe or, he thinks suddenly, concealed amongst the rocks on the windowsill. He’s certainly left his own keys in much more unusual places. Ireland leaving his own keys in the hands of Scotland while Ireland went back over to Dublin with his had been especially hilarious.

A cautious bit of checking at the windowsill reveals nothing but the collection of stones. They're all carefully arranged with the same level of attention to detail he’d put into his own, but now he looks a little closer, it’s pretty obvious that the rocks are each a little different from his own. It’s somewhat comforting to know that though things seem mirrored here, they’re still belong to this other Scotland specifically and that if he’s poking through any of his things across the rift then the things he’s looking at are separate and still belong specifically to Scotland.

Which stirs up a thought he’s not lingered on for more than a second.

Where exactly is this other Scotland?

And if they’ve been traded over like he suspects they have, then he’s likely as spooked as hell over being stuck in an empty house as Scotland had been to wake up and suddenly find the place was occupied.

Whatever the hell is going on here, it’s likely the two of them are in this together even if he doesn’t know anything about other Scotland at all other than the fact that they’re as similar as they are distinct.

A quick check over the wardrobe again uncovers nothing of interest, and a quick fumble around in the jacket pockets offers him nothing but the uncomfortable feeling of intrusion and pick pocketing.

The drawers, upon closer inspection do offer him some interesting things. These hankies have been delicately embroidered with little thistles in each corner, he’s unwilling to touch them, but he does run his finger over the green thread of one and admire the workmanship and in doing so his finger connects with something that feels solid enough to be a phone, and as such he gets to work pulling the item out.

It’s not a phone, though; it’s a tin that rattles slightly when he moves it.

It seems too well hidden away to be a possible place of storage for anything like keys or a wallet, but he’s not got many options and taking care not to dent the metal he grips the lid and pops it open, feeling some apprehension over sticking his nose about in places it’s not welcome.

When he peeks he doesn’t see a phone or anything useful, but his own memory gets such a hard yank that he almost drops the tin and sends everything inside clattering to the floor. The items inside are more hauntingly familiar than he’d expected, and his eyes settle on a knife.

It’s not the knife he owns, but it’s so similar that he thinks it might be the same brand. But this one is broken at the tip where his own is merely stained and worn down by Ireland sterilising it over fire, and –

Scotland doesn’t want to think about it.

Other items in there also catch his attention briefly; a bundle of letters tied together with a piece of ribbon that pulls a little on his memory, and he’s almost tempted to undo the knot and have a read.

But he can’t.

He’s fairly sure he’s unwelcome in this particular corner and regardless, he’s seen letters like these before. Everything else in here means nothing to him personally, though there’s a magnetism to them that assures him that they’re fucking important, regardless, and if he wants to keep his karma up, he’ll pop the lid back on, put the tin back where it belongs, and get back to work doing what he’s supposed to do.

Besides, if the knife in there tells him anything, it’s that the memories contained in that tin are likely less than savoury ones.

And he’d rather not intrude on anyone’s most personal things. He doesn’t have a right to.


	4. Chapter 4

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
  
Thus far, in his increasingly frantic search of Other-Scotland's house, Scotland has uncovered:  
  
One pair of sturdy walking shoes  
One winter coat (also covered in paint flecks, leading Scotland to suspect Other-Scotland might have a painting and decorating business on the side)  
One wallet (containing a crumpled fiver, which will be just enough to cover breakfast if he forgoes his usual second course of beans on toast)  
One mobile phone (battery dead and no charger in sight)  
Ten keyrings (advertising various tourist attractions from around the UK – found strewn amongst the hunks of wood, lighters, and other such useless dross on the little table by the bathroom – not a single one of them with any keys attached)  
No ùruisg or any sign of their presence (Scotland upgrades his assessment of Other-Scotland's house from 'a little on the messy side' to 'a bloody miracle, considering' accordingly)  
One rather old and battered looking cardboard box, still bearing an American postal slip, which jingles slightly as it's moved  
  
  
No matter what encouraging noises emerge from the box, it still takes Scotland until the elusive distant clock – which must belong to maybe-Simon the neighbour, as Scotland hasn't come across one during his extensive explorations – chimes seven o'clock to persuade himself that he should take a look inside. He still cringes as he opens it, as he's been suspicious of boxes kept under beds ever since he grabbed the wrong one from beneath Wales', and found himself face to face with the grim truth of his brother's sexual proclivities instead of the photo albums he'd been looking for.  
  
Thankfully, there's nothing even remotely penis-shaped lurking beneath the lid, only more of the same sorts of little oddments that are scattered throughout Other-Scotland's house. A glint of metal does catch his eye, however, and with careful fingers, he nudges aside a small, geologically-uninteresting grey stone, and a far prettier rose-embroidered bookmark to reach it.  
  
It isn't a set of keys, he discovers with a sickening lurch of his stomach, it's a very familiar knife.  
  
The one he stores in his tin is almost its twin, save the blade of this one is whole where his is broken. France threw it away when it snapped, and even at the time, Scotland hadn't believed his own justifications for later retrieving it. They weren't desperate enough, and their supplies weren't limited enough, that he would ever find a use for it; he'd simply wanted some tangible reminder that there had been one spot of light in the trenches, because he'd never believed then that what they'd rekindled would last beyond the war's end.  
  
Underneath the knife is an equally recognisable length of blue ribbon; one that, in his own world, France had unwound from his hair as they stood not talking to one another in England's parlour following the meeting which formalised the Entente Cordiale, and had absentmindedly left coiled around the neck of a dyspeptic-looking spaniel figurine. Luckily, Scotland had spotted it before England, pocketing it so that he could… Well, he's sure he made some vague pretense at the intention of giving it back one day, but really he used to be no better than some kind of sodding magpie, pouncing on anything of France's he could take. Even then, when he'd supposedly given up and moved on.  
  
Scotland suddenly feels guilty for wishing a distant relationship on Other-Scotland and his France, because _this_? This is like looking through a window into his bloody past, and he wouldn't want that for anyone. It was tiring, and lonely, and so fucking _difficult_ at times that he's not sure now how he found the strength and patience to endure it for so long.  
  
He hopes for a France who's taken an extended holiday to somewhere far, far away from the UK, but is blissfully happy with his Scotland besides, because he doesn't like to think of there being two such bastards as pathetic as himself in existence.  
  
Past the bundle of yellowing newspaper clippings and magazine articles that Scotland glances at for only long enough to notice that their headlines all contain the words 'Auld Alliance', there's a handmade card seems to demand that the recipient has a 'Happy Father's Day', given how emphatically the letters are slashed above the picture of a… Scotland squints, slowly rotates the card in the hopes it might make sense when seen from a better angle, and then finally concludes that it might be a pint as drawn by someone who's only ever had one described to them before.  
  
He's never received a Father's Day card himself. None of them have save England, and although it made him teary eyed enough that he had to pretend to go out and weed his garden for the best part of an hour, Scotland rather suspects it had been a joke on Australia's part, especially as 'Father' had been crossed out and replaced with 'Old Man' on the outside, and there was a large yellowish stain which still reeked of beer on the inside.  
  
Scotland's managed to poke through every single drawer and cupboard Other-Scotland owns without registering anything that wasn't a bunch of keys, but the card proves almost too intriguing to resist, riding roughshod over his sense of propriety. He has to force himself to put it aside before his squeamishness about invading his counterpart's privacy is completely overcome and he feels compelled to read it.  
  
He carefully unpacks the rest of the box then, stacking its contents on the bed beside him without examining them too closely, until all that remains at the bottom are, at long bloody last, some house keys partially hidden beneath what looks like a photograph.  
  
Definitely a photograph, he amends, as he grabs the keys and it flips over, presenting its printed side to full view. Other-Scotland is instantly recognisable, with his ill-fitting smile and shock of bright red hair, as is… Jesus, as is France standing beside him: same bright hair and eyes and smile; everything about him exuding the same brilliance that has always drawn Scotland to him even when he knew he'd get burnt by it.  
  
It seems to draw Other-Scotland, too, judging by the way his whole body seems to be leaning towards that Other-France who doesn't look like another France at all, even though Other-France's entire attention is caught by the camera, and is standing, completely self-contained and separate, as though he's unaware he's not alone in the shot.  
  
It's the only photograph Scotland's seen in the entire house – leading him to believe that perhaps that Other-England hadn't taken to photography with all the fervour of a religious convert the very moment cameras became commercially available, and then tirelessly documented every sodding moment of everyone's life ever since – and he can easily understand why it's hidden away. The yearning evident into every centimetre of his body, every nuance of his expression, is clear even to Scotland, and it must scream deafeningly out of the paper for Other-Scotland.  
  
Scotland can't bear to look at the photograph for a moment longer, and haphazardly stuffs everything from the bed back into the box, just to bury it deeply enough that he can maybe pretend it doesn't exist.  
  
Everything about France, it seems, is a universal constant; more's the fucking pity for Other-Scotland.

 

 

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

 

The disappointment he had initially felt about finding nothing but T-shirts and more pants in the remaining drawers is quickly dispersed as he heads down the stairs and into the hall. He can hear France clattering about in there, and it's a foreign noise that both interests him and allows him a few moments for silent investigation.

There are a few photos dotted about the place that Scotland takes a moment to look at. The faces are unfamiliar, but there’s also something faintly similar that he knows exists in his own reality and that thing is England’s attic which houses a collection much like this. Photographs of the family at various events, but it’s not his family even if the one bloke here looks so much like the England he knows that they could easily be doubles of one another.

Yet not quite, he senses a subtle difference, maybe in the arch of the eyebrows or the shape of the scowl on this other man's face.

The similarities beyond that go right out the door; again, he sees no hint of Wales, Ireland or Northern Ireland. He sees a family, it’s neither his nor completely not his, yet he hesitates in starting to slap names onto faces he doesn’t recognise even if he sees some tiny glimmer of something lurking within.

But it makes his head hurt again, and the noise from the kitchen has stopped. His progress in sauntering in and making his presence known, and possibly to apologise for being so unsocial, is hindered when his eyes catch sight of one photograph that holds his attention so firmly that he has to physically lift it off the wall and tilt it to double check.

He’s seen this exact photograph before. England has prints of it saved along with the others in the attic, Ireland has a copy of the newspaper cutting that he keeps trying to peddle off to him as some show of brotherly care though Scotland refuses each time, while Wales seems happy enough to never see it again.

He remembers the photograph well enough, though. His counterpart is in the same position in this photograph as he was; both so broad that there is some similarity between them if Scotland allows his eyes to squint slightly.

France is in the same position too, and the similarity is once again a startling one, but when Scotland analyses it carefully he starts to notice the tiny changes in posture and expression. They are the most minuscule differences; difficult to explain and as baffling to him as they make sense.

He’s quick, however, to turn his mind to more analytical things. If this photograph is right, and it simply has to be because the two Englands are in the same position here, it is both terrible and wonderful all at once.

It means the woman here is Wales and the long haired bloke must be Ireland, he decides, tapping each decisively. It’s good to know, he supposes.

“Scotland, there you are,” France' voice interrupts, and Scotland tilts his head up to look at him. He has a cup of coffee perched in one hand, and the other is patting down his pale blue shirt in order to remove a small crease.

“Aye, I was just…" Scotland rummages about his mind for an explanation, and realises that telling the truth in this case might just be okay. “Looking for my keys and such,” he explains, earning a brief smile from France.

“Is that what you were doing up there? I almost thought you’d had a falling out with me,” France says, though Scotland isn’t aware of anytime he’s ever had a falling out with France that he’s known about in advance. “Well you’re in luck,” France adds. “I found your keys underneath that heap you call paperwork. If you tided up a little better, you wouldn’t lose them.”

Scotland allows himself to smile thankfully as he gets to work popping the frame back onto the wall, taking every care that he neither drops it nor allows it to be too lopsided.

“I don’t suppose you’ve seen my wallet or phone lying around at all?” he asks, trying to sound casual.

France shakes his head and wanders closer, linking arms with Scotland and leaning there. The scent of coffee and cologne fills Scotland’s nostrils.

“I like that photograph of you, mon coeur,” France mumbles as his fingers ease themselves into the material of Scotland's green shirt. “You look very handsome”

“Handsome?” Scotland says, sounding just surprised enough that France blinks up at him and nods. His expression quickly becomes a little expectant. “You don’t look half bad yourself,” Scotland adds. “Very nice.”

France smiles, easing himself around to Scotland’s front, and then pressing a kiss to Scotland’s lips that Scotland feels he’s not really very deserving of, but appreciates anyway.

At least until France draws his head away and stares at him with rather judgemental eyes.

“Can I ask you a question?” France asks, looking strangely suspicious.

“Aye?” Scotland asks, sensing the worst in that face. “Go ahead.”

“You haven’t brushed your teeth today, have you?”

* * *

 

There’s a flicker of hesitation as Scotland once again glares at the box of trill that France has given him instead of the usual breakfast France might actually prepare (French toast, sliced up fruit and an apple along with a croissant if he gets lucky). It seems not everything around here is perfect, and being treated like one of his brother's pet birds is perhaps too massive a drawback to having France apparently around all the time to consider staying.

He’s not even sure this is cereal and not just a variety of pack of seeds that France is experimenting with. Maybe they all eat like hamsters in this new France? Scotland isn’t going to judge.

Yet he eats it anyway, because his newly acquired stomach is either completely empty from all his scuttling about, or wasn’t filled up last night just like Scotland’s own wasn’t.

Apparently eating the, whatever this even is, seems to be the right idea anyway as France doesn’t pause to eye him funny, and Scotland sets to work drinking the orange juice set out for him. Despite eating the entire bowl and feeling a little bit like he’ll actively shit flowers for a while, his stomach still groans with hunger.

“You poor bastard,” Scotland mutters, directing it out towards the OtherScotland, though he’s already made up his mind that he’s not standing for it. He’ll see what’s in the fridge and make something more substantial because he’s still bloody starving. France can even steal a bit of bacon if he feels so inclined.

And he probably will if he’s been eating rabbit food instead of people food.

When Scotland checks the fridge, however, he doesn’t find any bacon or sausages, no puddings of the white or black variety. There are eggs, but big ones that look like they might be set aside for France to make something with, and he decides not to steal them. There are no tattie scones, and he can’t see a tin of baked beans lying around either.

It's as though the whole larder has suffered the same sort of mass diarrhoea of all things good and Scottish that his own does when France swans in. He decides it must simply be just be one of those unquestioned truths before getting to work hunting for a wallet in one of the neatly arranged piles of crap that line up along the counter.

He finally finds one underneath a pile of magazines that lurks beside a strange device that he considers poking at for a moment before he tilts his head and notices what looks like a phone hidden in the shadows behind the dalek that stinks of coffee.

The feeling of hope he feels is overwhelming when he jabs his fingers into the number pad and holds down what looks like an on button, but it vanishes as quickly as it came when even an experimental tap on the counter doesn’t cause it to erupt back into life. The stupid thing is out of power, and he can’t see a charger in the kitchen anywhere.

Making it all seem terribly moot.

Still, a wallet is better than nothing, even if the thought of using another mans money without permission brings back the strong twinge of pick pocketing he had before. He’s often used the money of other men, but he’s usually just nicked it off Wales or England, making it completely fine as an exercise.

He’s never actually robbed anyone, though, and he feels like he’s just punched a little old lady and run off with her purse and small dog. Except the little old lady is actually a relatively big bloke, and he’s also gone ahead and made off with his body and life by mistake.

He makes his mind up to set out to the shops as soon as he can. There’s no food in here worth eating anyway.

* * *

 

The cash machine accuses him again of typing in the wrong pin, and he grumbles about it being incredibly stupid. He knows his own sodding pin and he’s about to key it in once more before his eyes connect with the back of his hand, a freckle free affair that serves to remind him that, oh yeah, this isn’t even your card. This is Alterna-Scotland's card, and the chances of them having the same exact number combination in place would have been a fluke so astronomically huge in size that he thinks it a practical impossibility.

It does leave him feeling rather stupid, though, as he casually takes the card back with a jerk of his hand that does little to hide his embarrassment at the cock up. Scotland slides it back into the wallet and allows the woman behind him with the toddler in the pram to finally use the machine, and ignores the way she mumbles about him taking his sweet, bloody, time.

He feels doubly stupid then when he starts to root around the wallet in hopes of spare change only to find forty quid in the area where he keeps his Tesco vouchers. He’s never trusted that barren, unprotected gap in a wallet to actually hold his money and always folds it up and puts it into the zipped area at the back.

“Oh for fuck's sake,” he barks without thinking, earning several dirty looks from more polite folks.

He clears his throat apologetically and dodders inside the shop, finding it refreshingly familiar. Even the promotional posters and the juddering of the air conditioning seem so similar that Scotland may as well be here with Northern Ireland, letting him go off on a wander before telling Scotland that he wants to make something out of pasta, a jar of white sauce and a bag of Doritos and Scotland obliges him because it sounds like fun.

He shakes the thought from his head; he’s not even been here a whole day and he’s getting soppy over someone he hasn’t seen in weeks anyway.

Maybe the Northern Ireland here will be an improvement, anyway? Not so many tantrums and moods and messing around and –

And he really does miss the little sod if he’s honest to himself. Not because he’s not seen him in a little while, but because as far as the world around him is concerned, that version of Northern Ireland doesn’t exist. He’s just a figment of Scotland’s imagination.

None of that is getting him any closer to eating anything though, and he strides off, pushing aside his feelings to get the job done.

He uses the time it takes to walk to the meat section to consider all the spells he knows that might possibly be able to alter reality, and the ways in which he could reverse them. He’s not adept at any of them, though.

Scotland’s always found his magic works better for simply making spells go where they need to go so fucking forcefully that all his brothers' delicacies count for nothing. Pushing everything else aside and onto its arse where it’s at its weakest. Only Ireland's more defensive magic has the ability to withstand it.

He could always try and simply and knock his own spirit out of this body, but then he’s never tried that before. He doesn’t know that his spirit will go back home anyway. That spell works better when you’ve got a focus and someone else is the target, and he has no idea where his own body is, where the other dimension actually is and where he is in relation to.

Anything.

That other world could be playing out right beside him, unseen and parallel, or it could be a million miles away, on some other side of whatever it is dimensions live in. Or it could be doing both at the same time if that documentary he watched about alternate dimensions is right.

But he’d thought it was bullshit at the time. Shows what he knows.

Bacon distracts him from such thoughts, which are a little too complicated for him and soon lead him towards thinking of Doctor Who, and whether what’s happened is something like that, except with an even crappier budget than the BBC might normally prescribe.

* * *

 

Judging by the way his apparent neighbour looks at him (like he’s just punched a baby across a room if Scotland were to describe it), he’d say that bundling the cat he’d found at the gate into his arms had been a slight mistake.

He’s not sure of this bloke's name, but apparently he’s not really fussed on cats, even if he had been looking at it like he not only owned the fluffy white beast – which was named Tiddles according to the tag on its stupid blue collar by all accounts – but like he didn’t quite trust Scotland not to pop its fuzzy little head off.

Scotland can’t really think of a way to talk his way out of just handing your neighbour a cat that is obviously not his, and he feels his eyes start to turn glassy as his new neighbour looks down at Tiddles, seemingly caught between simply accepting the gift and placing it aside.

Tiddles seems rather indifferent.

“Isn’t this Mrs Macpherson’s cat?” the man asks, his voice wavering slightly.

Scotland only knows one Macpherson, and it’s a single man who drinks with him at the pub; a bloke who's so completely allergic to cats that he breaks out in blotches if he so much as gets a few hairs on him.

The feeling of his own jaw sliding open in stupidity is one that Scotland tries not to allow, and forces his teeth together until he’s sure his mental constipation is ready to shift.

“Aye, I think it is,” he says.

His neighbour's eyebrows rise on his forehead, a silent ‘oh’ shaping his lips before his eyes dart slightly. “So why are you giving it to me?”

“You seemed like you might need a cuddle,” Scotland says before he can stop himself.

“Are you feeling alright, Alasdair?” The neighbour says, running his hand over the cat's head and stirring a little purr from its throat.

“Course I am,” Scotland half barks. He’s suddenly starting to recognise this fellow from somewhere, but where from is a mystery. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You didn’t head out for your walk like you always do,” the man points out, “and you just handed me Mrs Macpherson’s pussy.”

“That’s a perfectly good cat,” Scotland argues, “There’s nothing wrong with it. It‘s very nice.”

His new companion pulls an expression that suggests that he’s not sure how seriously to take this drivel. He seems to settle for simply looking confused as Scotland gathers up his bags of shopping and gets ready to excuse himself, noticing that his neighbour is eyeing him a little cautiously. Like there’s something about Scotland that’s just completely off but he can’t put his finger on it.

Besides the fact he’s handing out cats of course.

“I need to get inside,” Scotland says quickly. “I promised I’d make breakfast.” He raises one arm in a bid to excuse himself before taking off, leaving his poor neighbour to stare after him.

Then he looks down towards Tiddles, who stares back up at him with a dim, unimpressed expression.

“Make breakfast?” he says. “I didn’t know Aly could cook.”

Tiddles lets out a half hearted meow before jumping out of his grasp and running away.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Nearing Edinburgh, Scotland**   


 

England is finally driving. He prefers to drive really, especially when the roads are quiet and there’s no noise in the car. The silence stems only from the fact that Northern Ireland's passed out on the back seat for perhaps the first time in their collective histories, but to be fair, the sound of Stephen Fry narrating the Harry Potter audio book has probably helped.

“You can go to sleep too, you know,” England coaxes his older brother when he’s sure his voice won’t wake Northern Ireland up. “If your travel sickness medicine is making you drowsy.”

“I’m fine,” Wales mumbles, his voice rising and falling in an adorable inflection that makes him sound strangely childlike. “I can sleep when we get there.”

“Bloody apt; I’d rather sleep my way through it as well,” England says, allowing himself an amused snort as Stephen Fry makes a silly impersonation of a lady.

Wales blinks heavily and leans against the door, taking care to ensure it’s locked. “Make sure you stop if you get tired, Scotland won’t care if we’re late.”

“He’s likely forgotten we’re all showing up at all.” England says. “He’ll act all surprised and inform us that France decided to drop by and that we should all go home again. Bleedin’ wanker.”

“That was a year or two ago,” Wales says, though his eyes widen slightly in prolonged, very forced thought. “Or was it three?”

“Damned if I can remember,” England mumbles. “Damned if it matters.”

“You know what would be good for Scotland?” Wales says, a thin smile trailing over his round features out even as his eyes start to drift closed. England shakes his head in silent response. “A dog. We should get him a puddy,” Wales says, his sentence dribbling to nothing as he finally falls asleep.

England shakes his head as he fondly casts his eyes over his two brothers and turns the volume up slightly on his audio book. “Well Stephen, looks like it’s just you and me,” he says, wallowing in the orange gleam of the motorway roadside lamps as they rush by.

* * *

 

The last leg of the journey involves England driving as slowly as he can possibly go, and though he’s barely a mile away he still finds an excuse to pause at the local garage where Scotland refuses to buy anything because it’s so much more expensive than the Tescos or Sainsburys that are a decent old hike away.

He’s at least unlikely to run into his brother here. A few of his mates, maybe, though nobody familiar catches his eye. He just wants a quiet breather and a cup of tea in the car park, and to stop Wales from complaining about him not paying his fair share of the fuel. Twenty quid should just about do it. The car Wales drives (A red Peugeot 206 that’s got several dents running along its body) is at least a loyal and sympathetic car and doesn’t demand to be fed all the time.

It’s a peaceful enough time as well, sheltered from the cold winds that threaten worse weather to come: snow if they’re lucky, sheet ice if they are not. But the misty air is illuminated by the brightly lit signs of the Esso, giving it an angelic aura as the people mill about in their long thick coats and scarves, heads hidden under woollen hats. Fluttering Scottish accents tune themselves like bagpipes as the locals greet one another in cheerful, tired and hungover sounding calls.

England supposes that the scene is rather beautiful as he sips from his plastic mug to finish the last of the tea, bundled up warm in his green coat and red scarf, his arse just about going numb against the cold metal as he perches against the bonnet of the car and his hands snug and warm inside a pair of black thermal gloves.

Peace and quiet, warm hands and a cold arse. Splendid.

His peace however is ruptured slightly as he hears the telltale signs of movement from the car. After a moment, the door is thrown open and Northern Ireland wanders to his side, his arms folded tight across his chest and his face red on one side where his cheek had rested awkwardly on the seat.

“Where are we?” he asks, and England wonders what could possibly have woken the teen after miles and miles of pot holes and England listening to the Rolling Stones and Jimi Hendrix when it became obvious that neither of his brothers were waking up.

“Nearly there, I just needed a break,” England says, studying the way Northern Ireland's hair is all tussled out of shape, his nose starting to redden in the cold air and the fact he’s not got any gloves or a scarf on. “You’ll catch your death in that get up,” he points out quickly, though Northern Ireland only offers him a cynical little scowl and jams his hands into his pockets.

“What time is it?”

“Nearly seven,” England grumbles. “I can’t believe we agreed to drive all through the night just because that twat insisted.”

Northern Ireland makes a disinterested noise and slumps beside England. “I really don’t want to see Niall,” he mutters. “He hates me.”

England sighs and curls an arm around his baby brother, shaking him gently in a bid to get his spirits up and perhaps keep him warm, though such a motive is an unconscious one and Northern Ireland seems to struggle between pulling himself away in annoyance and accepting the offer and nestling close for comfort.

“It’s only because you always give him a hard time,” England says, handing Northern Ireland the last dribble of tea and letting his arm linger slightly where it rests on his little brother's shoulder. “I’m sure we can all get through this if we just –”

“Avoid talking completely?”

“I was going to say think positive, but yours might be more effective,” England says, as Northern Ireland knocks back the last drop of tea and sighs. After quick pat to his shoulder, England draws away to start rooting for his wallet. “I’m filling the car up in a minute. When I’m done, you can head inside and pay,” England says, handing his little brother a crisp Scottish twenty that Northern Ireland has to look at twice.

“Did you keep a hold of this from the last time we were here?”

“Well I’m certainly not using it in England. Taints the economy you know,” England says as he starts to wander back to the car door. “And I’ve got three more of them to use besides. Now move your bum and let me pull up to one of the pumps."


	5. Chapter 5

**31st December, 2012; The Esso near Scotland's house, Edinburgh, Scotland; 7:20am**

  
  
England has been staring at the packets of crisps now for about fifteen minutes, and each time Northern Ireland peers out from over the MTV magazine, his older brother seems to get more and more intense, like he has some deep hatred of smoky bacon or something. Northern Ireland is almost tempted to wander over and snap him out of it, but he’s wary of doing so.  
  
Instead he decides to pay for the magazine he’s reading and perhaps head back out to the car and see if he can find a sharpie with which to doodle on Wales’ unconscious face.  
  
It’s only when Northern Ireland receives his change from the incredibly fed up looking Scottish woman behind the counter and turns on his heel that England seems to make any move; a single little shuffle sideways to inspect the bags of McCoy’s cheese and onion.  
  
Northern Ireland loves a petrol station as much as any teenager, but with a lack of mates his own age to linger about with outside, and England’s apparent collapse into insanity, he’s sorely tempted to either wake Wales up, hot wire the car and attempt to make off with it or walk to Scotland’s house on his own. Because fuck this shit. Seriously.  
  
He settles for walking over and standing beside England, opening his mouth to make some comment or another before it shuts again as he watches England’s eyes, barely blinking and so intent on the crisp packets that Northern Ireland begins to assume there’s something horribly, monstrously wrong with them.  
  
“Arthur?” he asks, leaning forward to study the packets of McCoy’s ready salted, then allowing his eyes to peer at the price, weight and special offers on show. “What are you looking at?”  
  
“Something’s wrong,” England says sullenly.  
  
“Well you’re staring at those crisps pretty HARD,” Northern Ireland points out. “Maybe you should try actually buying and eating some instead. That’s how this works.”  
  
“I don’t mean the crisps,” England barks. He makes another small shuffle sideways, and Northern Ireland has to ease himself aside to avoid getting his foot trodden on. “I have a funny feeling.”  
  
“Funny feeling?” Northern Ireland asks, his mind popping with jokes about ‘taking that Viagra too soon, old chap’ and little else, though he holds back on saying anything for now. “What sort of funny feeling?”  
  
“Francis,” England hisses. “He’s done something.”  
  
Northern Ireland might argue that France is always doing things. Walking and talking and groping peoples arses and making everyone feel a bit funny in their trouser region along with shopping, sleeping and the occasional – he assumes – wank to balance things out a bit. He fails to say anything about it, though.  
  
Because he has a niggling feeling that, somehow, England might actually be right.  
  
“Angus never said Francis was coming this year,” Northern Ireland tries to assure, though, more to himself than to England who appears not to give two shits about Northern Ireland's opinion.  
  
“I can sense it, England says in a low flat tone, like he’s having some out of body experience, discerning something from deep inside the earth that nobody else can and hating the earth, every inch of it, for letting him know.  
  
“I don’t think it matters too much either way,” Northern Ireland says, rolling his eyes just a little and considering briefly that Scotland might actually feed them once they arrive. He’s certainly starting to get hungry enough, and going to see Scotland sooner rather than later at least would allow him the benefit of a decent breakfast in the form of a bowl of porridge or something. “We’ll have to get going eventually. People are starting to look at you funny.”  
  
England fluffs himself up before pulling his coat a little tighter and stuffing his hands into the pockets.  
  
“I don’t need Francis barging in this year,” England carries on regardless of Northern Ireland's prompting. “Bad enough having Niall about, hardly need that smug, ridiculous FROG there to get Angus all tussled out of shape.”  
  
“Well, tussled is a word I’D use to be sure,” Northern Ireland says. “But I remember Angus saying Francis wasn’t coming. He told me at least five times on the phone.”  
  
“You’re too young for your own bloody good,” England chides carelessly, making Northern Ireland's expression become dark and slightly bitter. “You should know by now that Francis does as he bloody pleases with no regard to what anyone expects.”  
  
“Everyone knows that,” Northern Ireland hisses, stuffing his hands into his jean pockets and feeling compelled to glare at the bars of chocolate as they sit helplessly on their shelf. “But I don’t see why he’d come near us. Doesn’t he have somebody to spend New Year's with?”  
  
If England heard that ‘so why would he decide to rain on our sorry parade?’ tone he certainly doesn’t seem any more relaxed for it.  
  
“If Argentina has any sense she’ll have made her escape while it was still a viable option.”  
  
“He’d likely go see Spain and Prussia over us anyway,” Northern Ireland points out, watching England take another more ambitious shuffle sideways, like a picky hermit crab with an overbearing desire for savoury snacks. “You make it sound like he lives to bother you or something.”  
  
“Because he does,” England says, deciding he has no interest in prawn cocktail and carrying on sideways and around the corner, forcing Northern Ireland to tilt slightly in order to keep an eye on him. “That’s what this has always been about, this whole Scotland thing, and you well know it.”  
  
“That sounds a bit fucking stupid to me.”  
  
“That’s because you’re young and you don’t know any better. Never doubt the lengths that reptile of a man will go to get under my skin.”  
  
“So you’re saying Francis DOESN’T like Angus then?”  
  
“Nobody likes Angus!” England bleats from the other side of the aisle and Northern Ireland tromps after him in a bid that England not hurt himself too badly considering his apparent lapse into senility over the course of the drive.  
  
“I like Angus,” Northern Ireland points out. “And so does Sam and Barry and Riley and -”  
  
“Stockholm syndrome. You’re all just so used to him now that you mistake his obvious brutishness as some kind of charm.”  
  
“Funny he says the same thing about you and Dylan when it ever comes up,” Northern Ireland mumbles, allowing himself a quick poke at a plush discount Santa before watching England obsessively peruse the baby foods. “Are you pregnant or something?” he asks with a sneer.  
  
England ignores it with every ounce of his will power.  
  
“I can’t stand Francis,” England assures himself, just loud enough for Northern Ireland to hear. “He’s nothing but a treacherous swine.”  
  
“I gathered that from all the other times you’ve told me since nineteen twenty two.”  
  
“Francis doesn’t LIKE anybody. Francis toys about with people and makes them think more of him than they should, then he –” England stops himself with a sudden intake of air that seems to rattle down his chest cavity before it all billows out as a cleansing and irritated sigh. “And I was certain we’d be rid of him for good considering he hasn’t shown his face around here in a while.”  
  
“You’re being very paranoid about this,” Northern Ireland says, ignoring the sentiment he almost heard on England's lips. “More so than usual.”  
  
“I had hoped we would have a nice family get together. Things would run like they do for a normal family. Dinner, a few drinks and then we’d watch the telly and wake up with terrible hangovers. Is it too much to ask that we do that, the five of us, peacefully coexisting, just once before the world ends?” England laments heavily.  
  
“I think it might be.”  
  
“Last year was a bloody free for all as well,” England barks, starting to study a box of pain killers like he might be toying with the idea of ending his own latent misery. “We decided to spend the holidays with the weans and look how it ended up.”  
  
“To be fair, you were totally asking for it when Cuba stuck your head down America's toilet.” Northern Ireland says, tipping gently from side to side and biting back the wide grin that would otherwise overtake his round features. “Shouldn’t have picked a fight with Canada, in all honesty.”  
  
“And of course Australia and New Zealand just had to rile Wales up and we didn’t see him for hours because he barged off and got himself lost.”  
  
Northern Ireland feels his legs start to go slack from easing himself around after England, who makes another small shuffle sideways. “And the year before that, when we spent our time with the rest of our cousins.”  
  
“I thought that was alright. Isle of Man got that gum out of his hair eventually, and Cornwall only threw his keys at you, he was going to shove them up your ar–”  
  
“Just one quiet family New Year's, it’s all I want.”  
  
“But,” Northern Ireland starts, earning England’s full and rapt attention, though the man's green eyes seem rather watery, causing Northern Ireland to wince and grip his magazine just a little tighter, “the weans and the Celtic cousins and most of Europe are technically family.” he continues. “France included, though you say you hate him. Quiet family things only happen on the telly. The TV has taught me that.”  
  
“You watch too much television, my boy,” England says, pointing his finger accusingly into the air as if the neon light has been running the BBC all this time and England is the only one aware of it. “And you know what I mean by family. Us. Brothers sharing some good quality time together without wanting to tear each other new arseholes every year or taking sides in some redundant fight caused by America or Australia, or someone leaving because they’ve been insulted or punched so hard in the face that they require a lie down.”  
  
“I already apologised to Germany for that.” Northern Ireland says blandly.  
  
“I’d rather hoped this would put an end to all the bickering between you, me and Ireland while we we’re discussing it.”  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“But I just know it’s all going to go tits up. It always does. I don’t know why I bother.”  
  
“Maybe if you stopped building up your expectations and just learn to appreciate the fact we can’t get along you’d feel better about it?” Northern Ireland says, shrugging his shoulders. “I never expect anything more than a drunken brawl and a death and I always enjoy myself.”  
  
“Honestly, North, is it so wrong to want a little more from our family than bickering and violence?”  
  
“Yes. Yes it sort of is.”  
  
England sighs more dejectedly than he’s done in a while before scampering away to start obsessing over the tinned goods and soft drinks on the other side and Northern Ireland groans as he lumbers after him, feet feeling heavy and shoulders slumping steadily down.  
  
“Maybe you’re just imagining things about France?” he offers, very certain that England will memorise every label, price tag and the order of the items on every shelf in the entire Esso before deciding not to buy anything and reluctantly getting back to the car. “He’s probably spending the new year with Brittany and the other French provinces.”  
  
England considers this, looks morbidly like he couldn’t disagree more with that deduction if Scotland had been the one making it, and then turns a bottle of orange Tango around so its label is perfectly aligned with the rest.  
  
“Next year it’s going to be just you and me,” England decides quickly. “We’ll go camping and do some star gazing. We don’t need the rest of those louts.”  
  
Northern Ireland nods like he might agree and allows himself a bored sigh. “If you say so, big brother,” he grumbles as his eyes trail lazily after England’s skittering, paranoid form as he leans down to start rearranging the tinned carrots in a bid to actively waste everyone’s time.  
  
He only hears England’s closing statement on the matter; a gruff, barely audible: “Bloody, France.”

 

 

* * *

 

  
**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 7:25am**

 

Now that Scotland's got some fresh air in his lungs and his stomach is no longer trying to gnaw on itself in a desperate search for sustenance, he finds he can think a little more coherently. His first decision made with a clearer head is that he'll have to write Other-Scotland a letter, because even though he'll never meet the bloke, there are several things he's discovered he'd like to say to him, anyway.

Point number one on the letter will be that Other-Scotland's doing himself a disservice by never having tasted the culinary wonders Fred Ross can perform with a simple frying pan and lump of lard. Scotland could scarcely believe that Fred barely looked up from the grill when he entered the café, and his wife Sheila had to ask how he took his tea, and neither one of them made their customary joke about how Scotland was single-handedly putting their daughter Rachael through Oxford, but it had happened, nevertheless, and makes his exuberant greeting to both of them seem embarrassingly over-familiar in retrospect, as well.

He's having a little more trouble with point two, however. Time and collective wisdom may have supplied him with a handy saying that sums up the sentiment perfectly ('If you love somebody, let them go. If they return, etc, etc'.), but he can't very well _write_ that. Not only does it have serious undertones of 'Whilst you were otherwise engaged, I was busy poking through your things and judging the way you deal with your private life; please let me explain exactly where I think you're going wrong', but he's can't even be sure it would be good advice, anyway.

Because Other-France isn't his France anymore than _he's_ Other-Scotland. Maybe he'll just bugger off and stay buggered off, and not have the revelation that… Well, Scotland's not even sure what revelation struck his France during the four months they were apart because he's never been able to pry an explanation out of him that makes any sort of sense, only a bunch of vague yet fancy metaphors about fireworks, rivers, and the like. Scotland had eventually decided that the _why_ didn't much matter and stopped asking, but that does mean he can't even give Other-Scotland the benefit of his own insider knowledge into the workings of at least one France's mind.

He's so engrossed in trying to find a wording that doesn't sound too censorious, or intrusive, or just plain bloody insulting, that he doesn't notice the man trying desperately to attract his attention until he almost walks slap bang into the poor sod, who has to grab hold of his arm to save himself from getting trampled underfoot.

"Deep in thought there, Angus?" the man says as he eases his fingers back from their tight grip around Scotland's wrist. His hair and eyes are exactly the same shade of deep, mahogany brown, and it's a combination of which tugs very faintly at Scotland's memories. He _knows_ this bloke from somewhere.

"Aye," Scotland says slowly, playing for time as he tries to remember the man's name. Maybe he's that mate of Duncan's whose grandma owns the big, fluffy white cat that keeps crapping on Scotland's drive? Paul McPherson? Or was it Peter?

The man smiles broadly, revealing slightly crooked front teeth, and Scotland strikes Peter/Paul from his mental list. Peter/Paul is a model, as Mrs McPherson never tires of telling him, and has the straightest, whitest set of teeth Scotland's ever seen outside of America's films.

"So, how was Christmas with your family, then?" Definitely-Not-Peter/Paul continues. "Was it as bad as you were expecting?"

"Worse," Scotland answers automatically, thinking of his own.

The man's laughter is vaguely familiar, too; loud and harsh like a donkey's bray. He could be that bloke that James started hanging around with a couple of years back? The one whom Wales took an instant and very uncharacteristic dislike to? They did both call him 'The Ass', though whether that was because of his annoying laugh, or simply because he was an enormous wanker, it doesn't help Scotland any, because only the sobriquet is the only name he remembers now.

"What you up to tonight?" Possible-Ass asks. "Got anything special planned?"

Scotland shakes his head, because there was nothing in Other-Scotland's house that suggested he was going to do much of anything at all to celebrate Hogmanay. He doesn't know whether to pity the guy, or… Actually, he's going to pity him either way, because he might have got out of what could well have been the sad, lonely night in front of the telly that had awaited him, but, if he is now in Scotland's place, he'll be stuck playing host to Wales' horrible boyfriend, and listening to England bleat on and fucking on about how they should have known better and locked North in the attic until he reached his tercentennial or something.

"You should come down to the pub. There's a bunch of us going; should be a laugh."

"Maybe I will," Scotland says, although he has no real intention of doing so. He doubts think he could pass for Other-Scotland in extended conversation, and any such attempts to that end would go right out the fucking window after he got a few pints inside him, anyway. For the sake of Other-Scotland's continuing social life, it's probably best if he keeps to himself as much as possible.

"Might see you there, then." Much to Scotland's relief, that seems to be Could-Be-Ass's parting shot, but, unfortunately, he only gets a few steps away before turning suddenly on his heel and asking, "Do you know if the quiz is still on tomorrow night?"

Scotland opens his mouth to tell Maybe-Ass that he must have his days muddled up, but then two realisations strike him almost simultaneously: One, he remembers where he's seen this bloke before, and two, the terrible truth that suggests about Other-Scotland. He must drink at the fucking _Tavern_ , who _do_ have their quiz night on a Tuesday, and whose five-aside team fluked their way into the finals of last year's pub cup over Scotland's own _Red Lion_ 's, thanks to a questionable last minute goal courtesy of the very same bastard that's standing right in front of him now.

And here Scotland had been thinking Other-Scotland seemed quite a decent sort of bloke – with his obvious love of hiking, and amateur geology, and _France_ – someone he might like to have a pint with if he were here right now, when all along, they'd have been having that pint at the _Tavern_ , with their cheating footballers, and that smug twat Kevin Fraser, whose encyclopaedic knowledge of cricket has ensured that the _Red Lion_ quiz team has never progressed very far in the Edinburgh regionals, either.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Scotland's half-tempted to tell Other-Scotland now that all France really needs is for him to pledge his undying love and write a few fucking sonnets praising the beauty of his eyes.

 

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 7:35 am**

 

Scotland's decision to take the long route back seems to have paid off, because it's given him time enough to start feeling a little more forgiving towards Other-Scotland. Poor bugger's just a little misguided, he's decided. It's simply one more thing he'll have to include in his letter: 'Seriously, mate, get yourself down to the _Red Lion_. The beer's cheaper and they don't have a karaoke night, and whilst you’re there, look out for James MacDonald. He'll be the skinny ginger bloke with glasses who's almost as tall as you are. Great lad, and if your Wales is anything like mine, they'll get on like a house on fire, too.'

As he nears the garage that sits on the corner of the last turn before home, however, he gets hit with something which instantly negates even that small improvement to his mood: a wave of displaced magic which lashes against his body and almost knocks him to the floor because he hadn't thought to be prepared for anything of the like. He stops, feet braced, until it washes over him, and the eddies it pulls along in its wake have an unmistakable pattern.

England is somewhere nearby.

Here, less than a mile from Other-Scotland's house. Scotland doubts that it's a coincidence.  
   
It seems like he won't be spending Hogmanay on his own, after all.

 

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 7:50 am**

 

The most sensible thing he could have done would have been to march straight up to England and demand that he reverse whatever the fuck had happened to him right then and there. Even if England couldn't do that, then at least he'd know how to get in touch with Ireland, and surely the three of them together would have been able to come up with _something_ that might work.

What he'd actually done, however, was turn tail and practically run all the way back to Other-Scotland's house.

He tells himself that performing magic right there on the forecourt of a bloody Esso wouldn't have been exactly the most sensible decision he'd ever made, either, but, really, that had sod all to do with it.

When he'd concentrated, tracing the flow of England's magic back to its source, he'd felt subtler currents stirring beneath the roiling current; ones that he associated with Wales and Northern Ireland. They were slightly skewed, however, variations on a theme, and he only reason he could think for that were that Northern Ireland and Wales themselves were slightly skewed versions of the ones he knew.

_That_ was what sent him into a retreat towards the relative safety of almost-familiar surroundings. At least this way, he'll have chance to prepare himself, and even if does he ends up gawping like a bloody idiot at his other-brothers when they eventually arrive anyway, as he suspects he will, at least this way there'll be no-one else around to see him do it.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

The discovery of the landline phone on a little shelf by the door as he’d stumbled past it had almost caused Scotland to trip over his own feet and do some severe damage to OtherScotland's nose. He’d quickly thrown everything aside in a bid to make a few phone calls, but it had all come to nothing.

The number he associates with Ireland patches him through to an Irish horse sanctuary, run by someone who must come from somewhere so deep in the countryside as to make them unintelligible even to Scotland’s well practised grasp of the Irish accent.

Northern Ireland's number leads him towards a slightly demented-sounding Northern Irish lady, who apparently has some issue with people claiming to be Scotland and looking for their baby brother by the name of Northern Ireland, because she throws a fit at him so abusive that Scotland finds himself easing away from the phone and slowly placing it back on the hook.

And the number he knows should get him through to Wales’ home is answered by a slightly dopey Welshman who works at some pet store in Wrexham who thinks Scotland is just a particularly thick Scottish bloke hoping to buy a turtle, letting him know that they don’t really enjoy being posted out.

All hope seems lost then as he manages to jab England’s last known telephone number into the button pad and it rings a few times before being answered by a chirpy woman with a Liverpudlian accent and  – Scotland assumes upon hearing her manner of speaking – massive hoopy earrings.

“Hello, England Industries, how may I direct your call?”

Scotland is faintly confused at this point, but takes the implication of what he’s hearing for what it sounds like. The England here might possibly be a canny businessman and not a pumped up housewife who sews buttons back onto cardies for fun.

“I was hoping to talk to England?” he says cautiously, finding himself leaning closer to the phone in a bid to hear every nuance of the woman’s vocal cords.

“Can I enquire as to the manner of your call, sir?”

“Just tell him his brother is calling.,” Scotland says a little impatiently, earning a small pause from the lady with supposed huge earrings and a ponytail so tight as to give her a facelift by Scotland’s deductions.

“I’ll patch you through right away,” she says before a particularly insipid cover of Greensleeves rattles into his eardrums and causes Scotland to decide that yes, this must be THE England, because England loves that tune and it can’t merely be a coincidence.

“Hello?” a posh voice enquires from down the phone line, with the same little upward twinge of tone that Scotland recognises in England’s voice.

Scotland shuffles about to check that France isn’t anywhere near him before carrying on. “”Hello, Arthur?”

“Yes?”

“Oh thank Jesus.”

“What do you want Alistair?” The voice asks, and Scotland might actually weep from the knowledge that this must be England, because he checked other Scotland’s name and it was indeed Alasdair. “I’m very busy at the moment, and you know I have to pick up –”

“Yes, yes. Listen to me for a second,” Scotland barks, earning an impatient tut from the other end, and he senses the other man leaning on his desk rather stiffly. “I’m not your brother; there’s been some kind of bloody mix up.”

“Well, I was aware of that.”

Scotland’s voice jars in place, so this England DID cause his immediate problems, and does deserve to be throttled when he finally shows up here!

“Right then you smarmy little twat, I suggest you undo the fucking spell you put on me and get me back into my own bloody body as soon as you can, ya ken?”

The silence he hears from the receiver has a distinctly surprised aura about it. Scotland imagines England staring at the phone in disbelief that his actions might have consequences.

“Well it’s hardly my fault you’re adopted. You’d have to take it up with Mum and Dad,” England says to him caustically. “And why are you talking in that ridiculous Scottish accent?”

“England, you tit, it’s me. Scotland,” Scotland says, his mind racing with the thought that their parents might still be alive in this universe, and that he, Scotland, might actually be adopted. He’s not even sure how that might work.

“Scotland?” England asks with an annoyed snort. “Oh very funny. You’re not the first arsehole calling me up here claiming to be Wales or Ireland or some nonsense! It wasn’t funny the last seven times it happened and it‘s hardly funny now!”

Scotland’s expression dips instantly. “But you said your name was England. You are Arthur Kirkland aren‘t you? THE England?”

“My name, good sir, is Arthur Robert England, of England Industries Incorporated,” the man hisses, causing all the colour to drain from Scotland’s face. “I’ve never heard of any Arthur Kirkland so you can bugger off and stop posing at my brother you rotten bastard!”

“Oh,” Scotland says. “Sorry, mate; wrong number entirely.”

The phone gets slammed down at the other end and Scotland quickly places his back where it belongs.

He’s not sure if that was just the most ambivalent case of rotten coincidence he’s ever heard of, or simply the universe working itself out in a horrendously cruel way.

And he begins to wonder what on earth England Industries Incorporated might possibly even sell as he drags his feet back into the kitchen to get to work making himself some food.

Time shares, he imagines.

Dotted all over the English countryside.

Like a rash.

 

  


* * *

 

Scotland takes pause to carefully flick the bacon over in a well practised manner and stir the baked beans in the single solitary pan he’d found lurking in the cupboard where his vast collection of cheap shite ones normally lurk. He assumes that this Scotland is simply is more economical than himself, and tidier besides.

He keeps this one pan spotless and avoids clutter, mess and spending money. The man is a genius!

The whole act of making himself food is an engrossing one that he rounds off by shoving on the kettle, preparing himself a mug of tea to enjoy alongside, and setting the bread into the toaster ready to shove down at just the right moment.

The butter is already out and he sets out two plates, just in case this France decides to join him. It’s only polite after all. He also makes a careful point to set out some coffee, trying to adjust his coffee making so it’s not quite as strong as he made it earlier.

The whole kitchen smells glorious, and the sound of sizzling the only soundtrack he thinks he’ll ever need to his life even as he starts to idly hum Danny boy under his breath, before finally jamming the toaster down and pouring hot water into the mug.

He’s just about got the teabag out when France strides into the room, a collection of artsy looking books in his arms that fall a rattle from his hands upon setting eyes on Scotland and his well organised cooking.

Scotland drifts over and lifts the three books, studying the covers before easing them back into France's grip. “The works of Damien Hurst and Eva Hesse,” Scotland says, only mildly interested. “Classy.” France to stares at him with wide, gormless eyes, as if everything in his world has ceased to make sense.

Maybe other Scotland is more inclined towards the art of photography or something; he certainly seems to have littered his house with enough of the bloody things. Scotland doesn’t like photographs, though, and any allusion towards thinking about them too highly would doubtless sound false.

“Do you want some bacon?” Scotland asks as France leaves his books on the side and leans there, eyeing the fire alarm first, then the cooker and finally Scotland himself who’s almost too busy tending to his toast to notice. “Sausage maybe? I’ve got a bit of everything.”

“Are you cooking?” France asks, and Scotland shoots him a cautious glance as he gets to work stirring his baked beans and setting out his black pudding, tattie scones and sausages on the plate.

“Aye?” Scotland says rather reluctantly. “I’m hungry.”

France finally takes a step over and stares at the bacon Scotland lays out on his plate. Hiss eyebrows dip on his brow, an expression of puzzlement on his face, as he takes in the apparent edibleness of the bacon – not charred to a crisp or on fire – and the lack of utter chaos in the room.

All topped off by Scotland idly hitting the switch on the cooker that turns the fan on, which avoids the usual high pitched squeal from the jaded old fire alarm. He then sets the pan in the sink to soak. and makes some comment about wanting to make eggs but lacking the equipment.

“When did you learn to do all this, _mon coeur_?” France asks, and Scotland turns to cock a brow at him and ask what on earth he’s talking about upon hearing the barely-masked elation in his voice.

He's interrupted by France rather forcefully pressing their lips together and jamming his hands around Scotland’s neck in a bid to keep him still.

While it’s not exactly the worst experience of Scotland’s life, it’s an unusual sensation to find himself wishing France would let go so he can eat his bloody food, drink his tea, and worry about anything happening below his waist that should not be happening.

Scotland eases his face away, realising that he’s now leaning far enough back on the sink that he resembles England when challenged by France with a similar proposition, though with much less snarling and swearing.

“So, do you want some bacon, then? I made plenty,” he croaks, aware that his whole mouth has gone dry and that France's leg has jammed itself between his.

France must really like bacon.

“No,” France says, his eyes narrowing in a way that suggests to Scotland that what’s happening – a wave of bacon fuelled lust by his account – is actually happening, and part of him is seriously struggling to fight against it.

And France decides to undo the button to Scotland’s annoyingly tight jeans.

“Well then,” Scotland splutters out, because if he knows what’s good for him – and he does – he won’t allow this to carry on. He certainly wouldn’t want some arsehole touching HIS France and is sure that Alterna-Scotland feels the same way. “I suppose I’d better eat it all myself.”

He grips France's hands and gently eases him to away before lifting his plate and scampering away with arms and legs that feel so stiff that they may as well not be working at all.

France can only stare after him aghast, mouth dropping open in wordless confusion as Scotland seems to try and locate a table in the corner that never existed and makes a beeline out the door and into the dining room.

France isn’t sure what to make of it at all, wearing the nice clothing, changing the bed sheets when they’d been changed only yesterday evening, learning to cook and now turning down a bout of lovemaking in favour of his stomach?

He rubs his temple and frowns before his blue eyes drift towards two mugs set out on the counter, one with gently steaming tea, the other with a portion of Nescafe coffee instead of the freshly ground coffee France had left in the coffee maker.

Yet he catches himself smiling regardless of his mounting irritation and confusion.

Pouring the hot water from the kettle and into the mug, he takes a moment to sip the – now entirely too weak – coffee, which doesn’t diminish his small smile as he pours some milk into the tea so absentmindedly left on the counter.

He finds Scotland sitting at the dining room table, munching on toast and bacon, pausing only to stare up at France rather pathetically and flashing him a quick smile when France sets the tea down for him and slides onto the seat opposite.

“Is something the matter?” France asks. “You seem a little off today.”

“I’m just not feeling quite myself,” Scotland admits, taking hold of the mug and taking a sip from his tea, feeling his nose start to wrinkle at how milky it is and how tepid it seems to his very finely tuned tea preferences. “I apologise.”

France cocks his head and studies Scotland for a few moments before lifting a slice of bacon off the plate and studying it as if it’s the damning evidence in a court of law. Then he grips it between his fingers and seems to attempt to snap it in half like it‘s some sort of walkers potato crisp.

Scotland almost opens his mouth to admit everything, to come clean and attempt to set this all right. Yet his eyes drift past France and settle on a massive chunk of wood on the wall that causes him to tilt his head curiously, eyebrows rising starkly.

“So that’s where that went,” he mumbles.

France turns slightly and glances behind him, seeing nothing but the same old arrangement of things, nothing out of place or that Scotland seems like he might have been searching for and as such he turns back to Scotland with a rather concerned look on his face that helps to break Scotland’s heart a little harder when it sinks sadly.

“Are you sure you're feeling okay, _mon coeur_?” France says. “You’re not worried about seeing your family, perhaps?”

Scotland struggles between the truth, yes, he’s a little worried about seeing his Alterna-Siblings. But to admit as such, even while stuck in some other dimension, seems demeaning. He’s not WORRIED about seeing his family since they stopped trying to actually rip each others limbs off, only suffered mild annoyance at their continued existence.

“Course not,” Scotland says carefully, taking care to try and look dismissive.

France seems to drink this in before he eases his hair behind his ears and takes a sip from his coffee.

“If you say so,” he says. “What do you suppose I should make for today’s lunch then?”

“Something England will choke on,” Scotland says, unable to stop himself. This prompts a bit of a laugh from France that sounds a little lower than Scotland remembers it.

Not that he really trusts his memory on the matter at the moment.

“Well, we can head out to pick something up when you’re done,” France says. “If you don’t mind going all the way back.”

The lingering thought that he still doesn’t know Alterna-Scotland's pin combination is one that rattles around Scotland’s mind for a moment. He can’t pay for anything very much, let alone whatever this France deems worthy of cooking for a lunch (if the asparagus in the fridge is any clue at least.)

“Can’t we just let them starve?” Scotland asks.

“I can’t starve six guests, Scotland,” France scolds, rolling his eyes playfully and poking Scotland’s leg with his foot. “And I need you to help me carry the bags.”

“Do you know my card number?” Scotland asks, trying once again to sound casual, and France nods slowly. “Then I’m all game. As soon as I’m done I‘ll go with you.”

“Wonderful,” France says, rising to his feet and tottering out the door with his coffee, apparently in a bid to make himself presentable to the outside world.

It’s only then that Scotland begins to count on his fingers, feeling like France has just served him a curveball that he has no idea how to hit.

“Six?” he wonders aloud, stabbing his plate with his fork in annoyance. “Since when are there SIX of them?” He supposes America and Canada might come too, it's not unheard of.

France however fails to hear any of this and Scotland feels the need to thumps his head off the table which causes his tea to spill rather monumentally and the mug to make a leap off the table that could just about have won gold at the fucking Olympics.

And it breaks Other-Scotland’s mug besides.

Hopefully that won’t dent his karma too badly.

“Fuck!”

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Between Liverpool and Edinburgh; 3:10 am**

 

“We’re not going the right way,” Ireland says, glad of the map he’s brought along, but finding France's ability to read the bloody thing to be a wonder unto itself. “I know we’re not going the right way because the number of miles on the signs is increasing.”

And if France has the map upside down, he’s going to have to kill something in this car, and he’s got his eyes on a pesky spider.

“I’m sure this is right,” France says. He leans a little closer into the paper and scratches his chin thoughtfully. “You took the last left, and that is what it said.”

“I think I know the route to Scotland’s house enough to know this isn’t right," Ireland snaps, which causes France to stare at him as if he’s been horribly betrayed. Ireland decides in that moment to quickly pull over and check for himself, easing the map out and running over the route with his finger.

A dawning realisation causes his face to melt slightly as he hands the paper back.

France was right the entire bloody time.

“Right which way next, then?” Ireland asks cautiously, sensing the smug little smile on France's face and feeling his ego fill up just a little more of Irelands car.

“We go straight on and take the second turn off at the roundabout,” France says, his voice trailing into self importance. “After that there should be signs.”

“Thank you,” Ireland says.

“I do believe you owe me an apology, _mon ami_ ,” France says, eyeing Ireland with an intelligence and cocksure expression that causes Ireland to drum his fingers hesitantly across the steering wheel. “But you can do it later if you are not feeling up to it, oui?”

The words ‘stop being an asshole’ almost get snarled from Ireland's chest cavity, but they never get the chance because France blows him a kiss that’s so laughably adorable that it seems to hinder Irelands entire thought process.

“Let’s just get to Scotland’s,” Ireland says finally, not willing to admit just now that he’s made a cock up, because he's tired and feels so much like he’s been run through hoops.

And all of it, he supposes, is completely self inflicted. Which makes it even more bloody annoying that his leprechaun has once again hidden all his music CDs, leaving only Queen in the glove box.

He’s beginning to think that his fae just have a thing for the _Bohemian Rhapsody_ or something.

Once the car gets moving again, Ireland chances a little glance towards France, who seems to be double checking the map in case they’ve both been badly mistaken, his bare feet under the heater and a finger loosely twirling a strand of blonde hair before France shoves it behind his ear and smiles over the fact he’s so sure he was right about the directions.

The mixed feelings of loathing and adoration that swamp Ireland's mind at the moment serve only to make his head droop slightly, and it takes some effort to draw himself up and concentrate on his driving like he knows he should.

He’ll be at Scotland’s soon, and France will hopefully forget all about him for an hour or two and let him have a bit of a smoke and a lie down on the sofa. They can go have a good old fashioned screw for all Ireland really cares.

The mental image he’s supplied by that notion however fills him up with a sense of revulsion, and more worryingly, a small twinge of jealously that he finds difficult to ignore.

As difficult to ignore, he thinks, as the infectious scent of Frances cologne, which has been weaving its way into Ireland's psyche for the better part of the day and will likely refuse to ever leave now that it’s jammed into his sensory recognition tighter than a nun's unspecified ladyparts.

 

  


* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Scotland’s house, Edinburgh; 7:55 am**

 

Ireland's eyebrows dip slightly at the lack of an answer at Scotland’s door, but logic overtakes his mind on the matter. Scotland is not keen on sitting around, and has likely gone to for a walk to Aberdeen or something to get rid of the tension in his legs. He didn’t see his beloved baby brother on the way in here, and he’s a difficult man to not notice besides.

Not much left to do but wait he supposes, as he doesn’t have a spare key. Northern Ireland is the only member of the family graced with one, and Ireland isn’t at all sure when England and the rest will even turn up, because England has been known to dither and piss about, getting things lodged in the bottom of bags or insisting on reading something completely redundant after dragging everyone to a place hours in advance.

It could be nightfall before anyone actually comes back, and Ireland doesn’t think he can entertain France much longer without taking off some item of clothing. He doesn’t want to do that either; far too fucking cold.

“What on earth is keeping _Ecosse_?” France asks him, eyeing the area that is Scotland’s garden, which is about as overgrown as his hair sometimes is, and with about as many bits of tat caught in it.

Ireland decides to try ringing his brother one last time, in the hopes that Scotland has just turned his phone off in a bid to avoid talking to England or Wales, and will finally notice it as it vibrates in his pocket.

Nothing happens again, and Ireland resigns himself to simply waiting on the doorstep, but not before he eases his coat off and throws it around Frances shoulders for the last time because he might start to turn blue if left in the perfectly normal British weather too much longer without some decent source of warmth on him.

France hugs the coat slightly tighter around his body, before linking arms with Ireland and leaning against him to keep a little warmer.

Ireland barely notices, and thinks only to check his watch and consider trying to break into his brother's house by clambering in through a bloody window.


	6. Chapter 6

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland**  
  
  
He finds himself drawn back like some horrid glutton for punishment to a particular photograph that sits atop the fireplace. He’s not really sure he’s ever seen France that genuinely happy before, and certainly not around him. Maybe around Ireland or Spain once or twice, though he’s not sure they deserved it even in the slightest.  
  
It makes him wonder several times over what exactly this particular Scotland has that he must obviously lack. What is it about this France that makes him seem so much more open to affection? The answer, he feels, is either incredibly simple or else something terribly obscure, and likely it doesn’t make much of a difference anyway.  
  
Scotland hears a distant rattle of pots and pans and France's voice as he breaks out into a merry little tune. He can still sharply remember the last time his own France stood in the kitchen cooking, ushering him out of the way with a look of impatience that fluttered with only the barest of smiles if Scotland did him some small good turn. Nothing like the wide, inescapable grin Alterna-France here seems to wear in the photo in front of him.  
  
Scotland thinks it’s beautiful.  
  
But painful to look at.  
  
He supposes he should be happy, really. There’s some margin for hope among these photographs. Hope that he doesn’t quite allow to sprout, because hope is the seed that expectation grows from, and expectation is something he’s grown tired of over the years; never quite having the courage to do what he needs in order to achieve what he wants most, and not even sure what actions might urge France into loving him like he did so long ago. Expectation has made him very tired.  
  
France hasn’t loved him since the Auld Alliance ended. Not the way he once did.  
  
Yet Scotland keeps soldiering on, playing at happy families when the rare instance of France taking some interest in him arises and they share some time together.  
  
His eyes start to narrow slightly, to sting at their corners like they do if he allows his mind to wander too far away from tasks needing done, to remember nights spent alone thinking of what might have been if only he hadn’t quite grown up to be like THIS.  
  
Whatever THIS is.  
  
Or, more to the point, whatever it is he’s managed to leave behind, if only fleetingly, to come into this world of expectation and photographs of things he doesn’t even remember doing.  
  
The clatter of France cooking in the kitchen and the smell of something warm and satisfying lingers near the base of his mind, making him feel drowsy.  
  
He doesn’t wish for this to be the same transitory whim of a visit that his own France might decide to take. He doesn’t want there be two people like him trapped in that cold suffocating limbo; never open to the idea of loving anybody else because it would be an affront to everything they’ve ever felt. That seems bloody awful.  
  
He also doesn’t wish for other-Scotland to be in a fully functioning relationship, either, though, because it causes an ache in his chest so massive that he feels compelled to stick his hand out and delicately ease the photograph onto its front so he can’t see it anymore.  
  
He feels rather torn and wishes his loyalty rested more with Other-Scotland, if only because it seems right and proper. He doesn’t desire anything but happiness for Alterna-Scotland, because he is by all accounts a mere extension of himself, slightly different in nuance and heritage but still a form of HIM. A form of Scotland that he supposes he should regard as something akin to family if only because genetics don’t get much closer that that. He seems like he might be an okay kind of bloke at any rate, regardless.  
  
But it doesn’t mean he wants to be completely alone, either. Surely he can’t be the only pathetic bastard left pining like a child for something that should have ended with the birth of Protestantism? Something he should have dismissed as soon as France's wide smiles grew thin on his face and his touches more hesitant.  
  
He supposes that’s a cruelty in and of itself, to assume that his suffering is isolated and separate and so much worse than anyone else’s. To think so is terribly egotistical.  
  
He sees the same look of anguished longing on Ireland's face if ever he’s in a room where Spain blissfully ignores him, and Ireland never had the benefit of being loved in the first place. Scotland at least had that, if only for a time. Ireland was left in an uncomfortable void, liked by everyone well enough yet never more than that.  
  
England too has his own closeted demons, drawing them tight and shielding himself behind them should America ever wander through his field of vision and start to twist the knife of mixed emotions around in his chest till nothing but bitterness is left to leak out of the wound, and to ruthlessly deny everything despite how plainly obvious it all is.  
  
To imagine Wales is in any way happy about how things have gone for him is an insult; being dragged mercilessly in England’s wake, finding his purest affections in something so intangible that he loses them as soon as he thinks to bat an eyelid. He supposes that can’t be much fun either. At least France will still be here in a hundred years if Scotland gets his courage back.  
  
The person Wales thought to give his heart to is long dead and buried, and no nation has ever regarded him as anything more than the pathetic shadow of a stronger nation. Scotland included at times, though he hates to admit it.  
  
Even Northern Ireland is getting old enough now to realise that he’ll likely never find another nation to truly care for him, allowing himself to believe that it’s merely his own ugliness as a home nation that would drive them away, because the thought of merely being all alone in a world where everyone is simply too old for you hurts too much. To see someone lose all their hope in such things before they’ve even had a chance to nurture some seems especially painful, if only to Scotland’s mind.  
  
Not that he’d admit a single shred of concern; his brothers would most certainly not appreciate a single bit of it in the same way Scotland’s never really appreciated their remarks about France.  
  
Better not to discuss it, he supposes.  
  
Not that he has much of an option, because his brothers are too busy not existing in this world to have much of a discussion with, incredibly emotional and awkward as that conversation might be.  
  
Which is all the better really, he’d much rather give them all a smack and tell them to stop being a pack of whimpering babies than anything else. In fact, he considers doing just that when he sees them next.  
  
A distraction from his more sombre thoughts comes to Scotland when he allows his eyes to linger on a particularly stupid photograph of France, all tussled and grumpy, apparently from going for a hike  
  
Unheard of, but an image enlivening enough to the soul that he can’t help allowing the faintest of fond smiles to rip through the sullen scowl he’d been wearing, ejecting a burst of air that translates into a waft of laughter.  
  
He thinks this is beautiful as well. Most of these photographs are inherently beautiful to his uncultured eyes although he knows he’d never be happy surrounding himself in such things.  
  
He only remembers having one photograph set out on his hearth, a particularly nice one of France he’d been given at some point or another, only to have the blasted thing robbed off of him by England for reasons completely unknown.  
  
The little bastard still hasn’t returned it, and Scotland doubts he ever will.  
  
Because he’s an arsehole.  
  
“Honestly, Scotland,” Frances voice cuts through his thoughts – mild annoyance at England and the things he’ll do as punishment for the crime once he gets home – as he turns to regard him. France first looks to the photograph and then scrunches his face up, apparently disapproving of its existence, and of Scotland having the nerve to giggle at it. “I called your name three times.”  
  
“Oh?” Scotland says, setting the frame back with a soft thud and trying to remember the exact angle it was sitting at because he suddenly realises that he shouldn’t have been touching it at all. “I didn’t hear a thing.”  
  
“I was wondering if you’d give me a hand in the kitchen?” France asks, easing his eyes slightly to the side and bobbing his head gently to the left. “The bread dough needs kneading.”  
  
“I suppose,” Scotland says with a limp shrug. He’s never actually made his own bread before – at least, not since he wore cloaks, rabbit skins and still had most of his baby teeth – but supposes that kneading sounds simple enough, and as such he allows France to lead him into the kitchen, with all its warm cooking smells.  
  
The single large pan France had acquired to create his soup sits out on the hob, bubbling gently, with everything carefully organised on the counter around it  
  
“Roll up your sleeves and give your hands a good wash,” France instructs as he gets to work measuring out two glasses of wine and adding them to a jug before rather casually pouring out a third and taking a swig of it, apparently to sample how good it will be for the soup.  
  
Judging by the little noise of approval France makes as he pours the wine into his mix, it seems to meet up with his high standards.  
  
Scotland allows himself a smile as he gently gives his hands a clean and listens as France gets to work chopping up onions and a clove of garlic and generally hustles and bustles about. It’s almost like being at home on a particularly good day.  
  
And he indulges himself – as he dries his hands on a handy tea towel – in watching France start to caramelise his onions, before quickly realising he’s supposed to be helping and looking around for this bread dough he’s heard so little about.  
  
He spots it on the counter opposite, along with a light dusting of flour, mocking him silently because his hands suddenly feel rather like the same blunt, useless tools they always do when France ever asks him to do anything. It's usually followed by him breaking things, being shooed out of the way and losing his kitchen privileges outright.  
  
“Can you quickly remind me of how I do this?” he asks, aware that if other-Scotland has been doing a lot of baking over the course then it’ll likely be a ridiculous question.  
  
France simply lifts his head with mellow eyes that fill themselves with a touch of patience and intense concentration.  
  
“I keep telling you, there’s no special way to do it,” France says. He gets back to his chopping and fussing over his onions as they sizzle away in the pan, enriching the heavy smell that plumes through the entire house. “Just think of England’s face and give it a good hard thrashing like you always do.”  
  
“England’s face?” Scotland says, staring at the dough and allowing his frustrations caused by all the England related problems he’s ever had wash over him. Including that ridiculous phone call from earlier, the missing photograph, and England’s likely involvement in this whole shambles Scotland’s been wound up in.  
  
He hits the dough with such vigour that a cloud of flour wafts all over him and the floor, like a light dusting of snow and the loud rattle of the counter causes France to jump slightly before peering at him with wide startled eyes and a thin frown that slinks into amusement; the faintest hint of a smirk.  
  
“Perhaps not quite so hard?” France coaxes. “Save your energy for the real thing, they‘ll be here soon enough.”  
  
Scotland pats himself down before affording France a smile that must look incredibly amusing – it’s managed to do its old trick of not staying on his face correctly by what Scotland feels of it – because France turns away with a low twitter of laughter.  
  
Scotland, however, feels the smile swim away from him for now. He has to make up his mind about what on earth he’ll even do or say to his other-siblings when they arrive. He’s certain they won’t appreciate him strangling their England right off the bat. Or maybe they would, considering it seems to be the same man if the photographs are anything to go by.  
  
For now he focuses on mistreating the dough and listening to France as he gets on with his work.  
  
The whole thing just makes him want to see his own France again, though he doubts that’ll have a chance of happening even if he gets home. May as well take some small enjoyment of it now and store it away for later.  
  
It’s certainly not going to last.

 

* * *

 

  
**31st December, 2012; The B-1347 just outside Edinburgh, Scotland**

 

  
“I’m pretty sure this isn’t the right way,” Northern Ireland points out, arms folding in quiet seething annoyance at England’s continued inability to bite the bullet and get on with things.

“What makes you say that?”

“Well for one, we’re not in Edinburgh anymore, are we?”

“Scenic route.”

“England, we’ll have seen the entire fucking scenery of bloody Scotland if you keep this up!” Northern Ireland chokes out. “And I’m starving, and Wales is still unconscious, and -”

“Would you ever give over?” England hisses as he leans forward over the steering wheel, as if to defend it from attack. “I’m merely trying to make as much of our time as palatable as possible. And how can you be hungry already we just got a snack from the garage!”

“All I ate was an apple and some Doritos,” Northern Ireland hisses. “You told me not to ruin my appetite before we got to Scotland’s house, and now you’re driving away from it!”

“Ah, right,” England says, his eyes drift towards the rear-view mirror and his fingers ease themselves around the steering wheel with a rhythmic drum from his fingers. “Well that’s because we’re going to get breakfast, obviously.”

“Breakfast?” Northern Ireland whimpers, eyes wide and staring at his brothers sudden decision. “Why couldn’t we do that at Scotland’s house?”

“I doubt that arsehole even has anything to feed you with let alone the desire to do so,” England says. “We’ll pull in at the next café we see and the three of us will get a good feed and THEN we’ll get to Scotland’s house and endure our torments.”

Northern Ireland leans forward in his seat to idly study Wales’ sleeping form, his breath is starting to wheeze and a trickle of drool is leaking from the corner of his mouth. Very attractive.

“I think Wales might actually be dead,” Northern Ireland says, poking his brother with his finger.

“He’ll be fine as soon as we get some food in him,” England says, his green eyes drifting towards his older brother and an expression of mild concern starting to fester onto his face. “Hopefully.”

* * *

**Exactly 47 minutes later**   


 

 

  
“Why are we in North Berwick?” Wales asks again as he leans heavily on the table, like he might collapse sideways off his seat at any second and hopes grabbing hold might save him the tumble. “I thought we were going to see Scotland.”

“England’s pussyfooting about, that’s why we’re stuck here,” Northern Ireland explains, though Wales seems not to care too much, still doped up on his medication it would seem and barely interested in the tea and toast supplied to him by England.

“I think it’s a very nice little spot,” England says, finishing up the last of his sausage and egg and taking a delicate sip from his tea as he admires the simple interior of the café, with its chequered table cloths and a variety of teapots lining a shelf mounted near the ceiling. “And to be honest I’d rather have a full stomach before we reach Scotland’s it’d hardly do to show up only to find he’s not stocked his larder and we need to go get something. Wouldn’t you say?”

“You’re a wanker,” Northern Ireland assures him, poking at his plate in hopes he might find some spare crumb of food lingering about if he wills it so. “We’d have been there ages ago if you’d just done what you said and pulled over at the first place we saw.”

“We’re here now, stop whinging,” England says, watching as Wales slides his plate over to Northern Ireland and curls up on the table.

“I feel like shit," he moans, drawing his arms around his face in a bid to shield the world and all its horrors from his field of vision. Mainly because he’s starting to feel dizzy and watching the entire world spin about might make him sick regardless of his dosage.

“Perhaps you should change that car sickness medicine you take?” England offers, topping up Wales’ tea and trying to sound kind because Wales looks rather pale and sullen. “Dramamine wasn’t it?”

“It’s the only one that fucking works,” Wales hisses. “It’s either this or I vomit on everything you own.”

“Rotten luck that,” Northern Ireland says as he gets to work eating the portion of toast and adding a little sugar to the tea England gives him.

“When are we getting to Scotland’s?” Wales demands, raising his voice so it gets through his arms. “I want to lie down.”

“We’ll be there soon. Stop your complaining.”

Wales responds by oh so tactlessly raising his hand and shoving his middle finger out.

“This is all your own fault, you know,” England reminds him. “It was you who insisted we invite Ireland to our family affairs, though he doesn’t really deserve it and it was you who decided we should spend our time at Scotland’s house.”

“Don’t you dare bloody start on me.” Wales warns. “Firstly, Ireland IS family and he had nobody to go to, the poor critter, and secondly,” Wales growls, his tone lowering into a dangerous region that causes England to lean away from him, “we’d have gladly stayed at mine or with you but you insisted that Scotland had more room.”

“Which he does,” England says as he pinches a slice of toast and tears a mouthful of it, chewing thoroughly before washing it down with some tea. “And Ireland was spending this year with the EU. He only came because you and Scotland were adamant; don’t feed me any horseshit about him being all alone.”

Wales makes no move to respond, making a slow and very calculated bid to grab his cup of tea with his hand and drag it across the table towards himself, where he cradles it lovingly for a few moments, forehead still leaning on the wooden table.

“You’re a wanker,” Wales says, earning a snort from Northern Ireland who butters the last piece of toast before pausing to regard his half dead older brother with some small degree of sympathy.

“Are you sure you don’t want to eat something?”

“Fuck off.”

“Be that way then,” Northern Ireland mumbles, “you intolerable twat.”

“Leave him be, Oli,” England says as Wales rises to take a small swig from his tea to replenish the liquids he’s lost by drooling on himself. “Can’t you see the poor blighter's all tuckered out?”

“Poor babeh.”

“I’ll pitch this at your face,” Wales groans, “as soon as I figure out which one to aim at.”

“You might want to try fixing your hair a bit too, it’s all frizzed out and weird looking,” Northern Ireland says. “You look like one of those dopey show poodles, except in brown.”

“It does look a little –” England says making some uncharitable, and to Wales’ drug addled mind, rather indecipherable hand motions around his head. “It’s sort of everywhere.”

Wales answers their concerns by dropping his head on the table with such a clatter that his cup almost rebounds and topples to the floor, stopped only by England’s quick reflexes.

“I suppose that means he doesn’t care.”

“He probably should,” Northern Ireland says, eyeing Wales' unsightly waves as they stick out all over the shop, a distinct curl sprouting from where the saliva pooled on his cheek and hair and has started to dry. “Otherwise they might call animal control and take him away.”


	7. Chapter 7

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 8:10 am**  
  
  
When the doorbell rings for the first time, Scotland heads towards the kitchen to put the kettle on rather than answer it. After spending such a long time cooped up together in a car, his other-brothers will no doubt be in need of something to sooth both parched throats and frayed tempers, so providing a cup of tea seems like the only sensible option.  
  
The second ring sends him clattering through Other-Scotland's cupboards in search of biscuits, because tea without something to dunk in it just doesn't seem right. It's like strawberries without cream, or a bacon sandwich without brown sauce; unacceptable, no matter the time of day.  
  
With the third ring comes the recognition that rearranging the piles of old newspapers in Other-Scotland's hallway into neat stacks ordered by date is nothing but bald procrastination, and he forces his hands to still. It's fucking ridiculous behaviour, and counterproductive besides. He _needs_ to talk to his other-brothers, after all, if he is to have any chance of getting home some time soon.  
  
So when the doorbell blares for a fourth time, sounding somehow more peevish than a single note should by rights, he takes a deep breath, draws back his shoulders, and then throws open the front door.  
  
His stern reminder to himself not to stare to blatantly at what he sees beyond it, or swear too loudly and upset Other-Scotland's neighbour even more than he already has, proves superfluous, as the first thing he sees when he throws open the door isn't his brothers wearing unfamiliar faces, but _France_. He can't help but gawp a little.  
  
It's like looking at the photograph of his France that currently sits on his mantelpiece; the one he'd taken after their first anniversary hike (and that France keeps relocating into a drawer whenever Scotland's not looking because it doesn't exactly show him at his impeccable best). Other-France's identical features are contorted into an identical frown, his hair is just as windswept – beginning to twist into the loose curls he doubtless tries his hardest to subdue normally too – and his skin has the same bluish tinge.  
  
He must be fucking freezing, despite the heavy jacket slung around his shoulders over his own, and seeing his teeth chatter makes Scotland want to grab him, pull him close, and then warm him up by any means necessary. He can't, though, he can only look, and that quickly becomes frustrating enough that he has to turn his head aside.  
  
It's only then that he truly registers that France isn't alone; that he's clutching on to some bloke who stinks of nation, but with a particular bouquet that Scotland does not recognise offhand.  
  
He reluctantly drags his eyes from their linked arms up a scrawny, narrow chest to a face which is on the annoying side of handsome, albeit decorated by a thin black moustache that Scotland, with a certain amount of petty spite, mentally classifies as weaselly. It is, he thinks, a remarkably punchable sort of face; so much so that his hands clench into fists of their own accord, and he takes a small, involuntary step forward.    
  
The only thing that stops him from taking a second is the realisation that it probably wouldn't do Other-Scotland's reputation any good if he were to start smacking people simply for having the temerity to be in physical contact with France whilst not being Scot… Other-Scotland. For all he knows, this lanky streak of piss might actually be someone Other-Scotland _likes_ , despite everything that's so clearly wrong with him even on first glance, and so it's probably best to err on the side of caution.  
  
Mr Streak-of-Piss stares at him with wide, gormless eyes, obviously completely oblivious to his lucky escape, and says, "Jesus Christ, are you deaf or something?"  
  
This seems to spur France into acknowledging Scotland's presence, as well. "Honestly, _Écosse_ ," he says, shaking his head slightly in obvious disapproval. "Do you know how long we've been standing out here?"  
  
The name should grate coming from those lips, as should the way France tightens his grip on Streak-of-Piss's arm and then leans a little closer towards him, but the move is such a familiar one that it redirects the flow of Scotland's rising irritation towards himself instead of outwards. France isn't likely to be able to leech any heat from his companion, whose bare, scrawny arms are stippled with goosebumps, and keeping him standing on the doorstep is only making matters worse. If Scotland prevaricates much longer, then Streak-of-Piss might be inspired towards donating his T-shirt on top of his jacket in the name of preventing France from shivering himself to pieces, and that's a state of affairs Scotland has no wish to encourage.  
         
"Sorry," he says to France, motioning for him to enter the house, "I was... I was just caught up with something. Didn't hear the bell till just now."  
  
France slips his arm free and complies with pleasing alacrity. "What could possibly be more important than us?" he asks, and his slightly judgemental tone touches that moribund sense of misplaced guilt Scotland still harbours about the answer to that question occasionally being something other than 'nothing'; a feeling that is only exacerbated when France's chilled fingers brush against his arm.  
  
Streak-of-Piss's obnoxiously loud throat clearing interrupts Scotland's second, more heartfelt apology, and he doesn't have the good grace to look ashamed of himself as he should when Scotland turns to glare at him. Instead, he glares defiantly back, folds his arms across his chest, and says, "Well, it's good to see you again."  
  
Before Scotland can tell him, 'Can't say the same,' and slam the door in his smug, too-handsome face, France's hands suddenly splay across his chest, scattering his thoughts in completely different and unproductive directions, which begin at 'How the hell didn't I notice him sneaking up on me,' and end some place that wouldn't do either of them any good.  
  
"You‘re looking very…" France pauses, fingers toying with a button on Scotland's shirt, and his mouth twists a little with very familiar looking distaste. Clearly, the outfit Scotland picked out isn't up to specifications. "Well, _Écosse_ ," he finishes eventually, which is probably the kindest thing he could find to say, considering.  
      
"You look –" Scotland finds himself swaying in towards France as he moves even closer, and the only thing that stops him short is the observation that the top of France's head reaches no further than his clavicle. It just reinforces the fact that although he looks the same, sounds the same, even fucking _smells_ the same, this isn't his France, who fits neatly beneath his chin if they both tilt their heads just the right way, because Scotland isn't usually inhabiting the body of a sodding _giant_. "Halfway to getting hypothermia, actually," he continues, taking a rather hasty step back, away from any lingering temptation.  
  
France looks a little annoyed by the sudden distance; his brow creasing as his mouth flattens into a thin, unhappy line. His eyes drift away from Scotland then, towards the lanky twat who's still hovering like a bad smell in the doorway. " _Irlande_ , are you just going to stand there?" he asks, each word snapping harshly.  
  
Ireland?  
  
The lanky twat's _Ireland_?  
  
Apparent-Ireland's gaze flickers between Scotland and France several times, and then he turns sharply on his heel. "I'm going to go get our stuff from the car; you two get… reacquainted."  
  
Now that Scotland concentrates, he _can_ discern some familiar rhythms in the bloke's aura that are very reminiscent of his sister's, but they're so faint that it's no surprise that he missed them at first. The similarity's not as pronounced as when he sensed his other-brothers earlier, but unmistakable once he knows what to look for.  
  
Jesus Christ, it _is_ Ireland.  
  
That would explain the accent, then, and Scotland quite wants to kick himself for being so distracted by France that he was incapable of making that even simpler connection far sooner.  
  
France insinuates himself close against Scotland's side again, murmuring about needing something hot inside him that would have sounded interesting to Scotland at any other time.  
  
Instead, he simply shrugs off France's hands, eyes fixed on Ireland's slowly retreating back. "I should go and help him with that," he says.  
   
 France's whole face collapses into confusion. "He can handle the bags, _Écosse_. Can't you, _Irlande_?"  
  
Ireland pauses and peers back over his shoulder. "Aye, I can get them,' he says with a nod. "You go get some coffee or something."  
  
He lifts his eyebrows and flicks his hand encouragingly towards the house a couple of times, obviously trying to urge Scotland to go inside with France.  
  
But Scotland needs to talk to this Ireland, and quickly. To clue him in about what's happened before he senses it and maybe makes a scene, because Christ knows how this France will react to the whole magic thing.  
   
"I know how he packs," Scotland says, ignoring the hint in Ireland's raised eyebrows, "you've probably got half his wardrobe in the boot. It'll be quicker if I help."  
  
He tries to communicate via the medium of eyebrows himself; a complicated Morse code of twitches that is meant to convey, 'I really need to talk to you. Alone.'  
  
Ireland appears nonplussed, however, obviously not fluent in Scotland's particular dialect of body language. His only reaction is to produce a battered packet of cigarettes from the pocket of his jeans and light one, his puzzled expression soon becoming obscured beneath a cloud of smoke that slowly rises to wreathe his face.  
  
"I only packed the essentials," France says haughtily, sounding slightly insulted. "I had to drag it all the way to Dublin, after all."  
  
France was in Dublin? Does that mean he and Other-Ireland _are_ together? Fucking hell, poor Other-Scotland. Scotland doesn't know what he'd do if any of his siblings had actually ever fallen for the charm offensive France had been laying on them since time immemorial. That must fucking _hurt_ , having it all play out so close.  
  
He puts the thought firmly out of his mind, however. This isn't his France, nor is it any of his business what he does with Ireland or anyone else for that matter. He has more important things to worry about at the moment, namely speaking to Other-Ireland as soon as possible, and he'll just have to add his commiserations to the letter he's planning on leaving Other-Scotland. So long as he can think of a way of phrasing the sentiment carefully enough that it doesn't sound pitying, anyway.  
  
A myriad excuses for following Ireland flit through Scotland's brain, each more elaborate than the last, but he eventually goes with, "I just need to talk to my... brother alone for a moment," because subtlety isn't a luxury he has time for, really.    
  
France looks as though he might argue for a moment, but then he shakes his head and stalks off towards the kitchen with an exasperated-sounding, "If you insist, Ecosse."  
  
By the time Scotland catches up with Ireland, he's reached the car, and is running one finger seemingly at random across its boot, though the trails it clears through the dust and dirt obviously have some design and purpose, nevertheless, as they thrum faintly with gathered power.    
  
"I know what you're thinking, but it's not my fault," Ireland says, his attention focused on the movement of his finger. "I've had him latched onto me for hours. Bloody suffocating. I tried to tell you sooner but your bloody phone was turned off."  
  
"Aye. Right," Scotland says distractedly, his own attention fixed on the front door of Other-Scotland's house. When Other-France fails to reappear there – complaining about the state of the kitchen, or the freshness of the milk, or any of the many other things his France usually finds unequal to his exacting standards in Scotland's own house –  he draws a little closer to Ireland. "Look... Ireland, I've got a bit of a problem."  
                 
Ireland stiffens slightly when Scotland gets too close, the wiry muscles in his arms bunching tight like he might be considering throwing a punch. His obvious discomfort makes Scotland wonder if Other-Ireland and Other-Scotland don't get along, which might prove to be a problem. What if he doesn't want to get his own Scotland back, and refuses to help?  
  
"Is that so? What kind of problem are we talking about here?" Other-Ireland's expression is completely unreadable, the tone of his voice is flat; neither giving any hint to Scotland as to whether he gives a shit either way about what might be troubling – as far as he's concerned – his brother.  
  
He leans away from Scotland then, popping open the boot of his car and grabbing hold of one of the bags within it. His shoulder dips slightly as he lifts it, which suggests it's quite heavy, and Scotland keeps a wary eye on both it and Other-Ireland as he shuffles closer, as it looks like the sort of thing which could be pressed into service as a rather handy weapon if things do get a little heated.  
  
 "It's sort of... delicate," Scotland says, dropping his voice even lower.  
               
Other-Ireland's eyebrows shoot upwards into the tangled sweep of curly black hair which covers his forehead. "Is that so?" His mouth pinches tight for a moment, as though some thought has just occurred to him that he finds particularly distasteful, before continuing with: "Well, I'm sure whatever it is, we can talk about it inside."  
  
He lifts the second bag, and starts to trundle back towards the house, and Scotland should just let him go, because he _doesn't_ know how volatile Other-Scotland and Ireland's relationship might be yet. His hand doesn't appear to get the message of how much danger the rest of his body might be in, however, moving seemingly of its own volition to grab hold of Other-Ireland's shoulder.  
  
And despite the possible misstep, Scotland clings on, because desperate times call for desperate measures, and, really, a broken nose or dislocated jaw would be a small price to pay in the long run, if there's any chance that Other-Ireland might be willing and able to help him, regardless.    
  
"We can't; France might overhear," he hisses. "This is something best kept between the two of us, you ken."  
             
Other-Ireland stands motionless for a second before he slowly glances at Scotland, his eyes drifting first to the hand on his shoulder, and then to Scotland's face. A beat or two of silence follows, wherein Scotland's breath quickens and his own muscles tense, anticipating the blow he's almost certain is coming now, but the tension all drains away in a dizzying rush, because Other-Ireland nods, and says, "I ken."  
  
He swiftly turns to face Scotland fully then, and his eyes soften in a way that seems to bespeak both interest and concern. "So? What is it?" he asks quietly.  
            
Now he appears to have Other-Ireland's rapt attention at last, Scotland finds it difficult to put his predicament into words, however. "The thing is... I'm not actually Scotland," he attempts. "Well, I am, but not _your_ Scotland. Not your brother."  
  
Which is, Scotland thinks, quite possibly the shitest explanation he could possibly have come up with, and he cringes, expecting Other-Ireland to tell him he's talking bollocks, or –  
           
Or laugh, which is exactly what he does. A loud, explosive burst of sound which tips his head backwards slightly as it erupts. "You're an arsehole sometimes," Other-Ireland says, his whole face lit up with a wide smile.  
  
The smile fades just as quickly as the laughter did, though, falling into a frown as Other-Ireland takes a cautious step away from Scotland, obviously sensing something that makes him suspicious.  
  
"No, seriously, I woke up this morning here, in this house and this body, and none of it's mine," Scotland says urgently, willing his other-brother to believe him and not retreat entirely. He tries to force Other-Scotland's still unfamiliar features into an expression that reflects his sincerity, although he can't be sure that he's entirely successful. He rather suspects he might just look constipated. "Mine's... I don't know the fuck where. Same place as your Scotland, I hope."  
         
It appears Other-Ireland is sufficiently convinced, though; thoroughly enough to drop the bags he's holding and place both of his hands on Scotland's shoulders in kind.  
  
"You're serious?" he says, fingers squeezing a little painfully. "How the fuck does that even happen?"  
  
Scotland can feel Other-Ireland's magic questing towards his own, and they meet in a tangle of dissonance and static, which raises the tiny hairs on Scotland's arms, and, by the looks of it, on Other-Ireland's, as well. Other-Ireland's eyes widen as he too notices their shared reaction, and his mouth slackens a little in obvious surprise.  
        
"I don't bloody know," Scotland says, shaking his head. "Some fucked up spell or other is my best guess. Well, my only guess, really. Have any of your lot been messing around with something like that?"  
  
He would blame England right off the bat, but doesn't know this universe's England, and perhaps _he's_ not a complete wanker.  
  
That does seem unlikely, though.       
  
"Don't be thick, there's no spell powerful enough to… I suppose England might know one," Other-Ireland says, immediately proving Scotland's supposition as being not entirely without merit, although he does eventually shake his head as though dismissing the idea. "Even England wouldn't try something like that, no benefit to it."  
  
Other-Ireland's hands slowly drift off Scotland's shoulders, and he draws his fingers to his mouth, looking slightly anxious. "Bloody hell, I'd tell you this was bullshit, but –"  
  
But their magic clashes in a way that Scotland's never has with any of his siblings', and no doubt that's always been the case for this Ireland and his brother, too.  
      
"Believe me, I know it's not. Look, I've tried to send myself back, but all of my spells have done absolutely sod all. My Ireland's better at this sort of thing – cleansing rituals and the like – so I was hoping that would be the same here, even if bugger all else is." He shoots Other-Ireland a pleading look. "So, do you think you can help me, mate?"  
     
"Well, I'm not sure I'm any better at it than my baby brother, but I'll most certainly give it a go." Other-Ireland's smile looks confident, but his words do sound less so, "Though I don't know how to get around France... He's never really bought any of this magic lark.'  
   
 "Shit. I hadn't really thought about how we could deal with that, because my France..." Scotland trails away, because his France would doubtless think this whole situation was fucking ridiculous, but he would at least _believe_ it was happening. It's just more proof, if any were needed, that this isn't _his_ France he's dealing with, in any way, shape or form, despite their more obvious similarities. "Well, he'd think we were barmy, but he'd go along with it anyway. I guess we need to distract him with something, then. Any suggestions?"  
  
Other-Ireland shrugs idly. "If yo– If my little brother's left his kitchen in the kind of mess he normally does, then France will probably want to wash himself till there's no skin left." He folds his arms, face settling into a reluctant expression, and then glances towards the front door of Other-Scotland's house. "But, then again, France never seems to do what we expect."  
  
"That sounds about right, at least," Scotland says, smiling fondly. "Okay, so the plan is get France in to kitchen, and then..."  
  
Scotland looks at Other-Ireland expectantly, hoping he'll take the lead as Scotland has no clue what they should do after that. He's reached his limit as far as using magic for something other than cursing or blowing things up goes.  
  
"Leave that to me," Other-Ireland says.

 

* * *

 

  
**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 1:00 pm**   


 

Tea.

England rings the doorbell again. The thirst lingering in the back of his throat overpowers all other stimuli save the cold bite of air as he inhales it a little too fast, and the distant calls of his travel companions. Oh, you want some help with the bags, do you, Wales? Well, you should have thought of that before you acted like a smug bastard; smiling needlessly, making smart comments and proving yourself incapable of parental concern.

Tea

England can even ignore the fact he’s at Scotland’s door for a few moments because all he really wants is a cup of rich delicious tea. He rings the doorbell again and there's still no reply. This is just wonderful. He’s out here, craving tea like some bizarre vampire while Scotland and France –

Actually, he refuses to think about it. Instead, his finger jams itself against the button of the doorbell again.

Tea.

It’s been eight hours in that car, and the least he could be afforded at this moment in time is a kettle, mug, and something to wash away the harsh plastic undertones of tea that comes from a flask and tastes unappetisingly like the little lid it’s being served in. Nobody else has these problems. Nobody at all.

Tea!

England makes a mental note to pack proper mugs next time, as well as a muzzle for Wales, because his cheerful singing had started around Carlisle and all hints that he should immediately cut it out had fallen rather literally on deaf ears – Romano had been unconscious, the lucky bastard, and the other two, one of whom he refuses to honour with a name, were blissfully unaware of it because of their iPods – supplying no backup whatsoever.

All he wants is a cup of bloody tea!

The doorbell gets one more strangely irritated sounding ring, but this time the door gets thrown open with such an almighty swoosh that England assumes outright that it’s Scotland who’s opening it, and readies himself for a verbal assault on his big brother, letting him know every detail, every _nuance_ of his suffering, and filling him in on how much of it is Scotland’s fault – as usual – but he’s greeted by something far worse than Scotland.

Far, far worse.

“Arthur!”

Well, this day just couldn’t get any shoddier now, could it?

“I thought it must be you,” France continues, making no effort to invite England in. In fact, he leans against the frame in such a way that it creates an unsavoury French roadblock between England and the kitchen where the kettle and teabags and all the mugs live with their glorious life restoring magic and milk. How he hungers to see a bottle of milk.

And France looks altogether too cheerful, at any rate. England’s had enough of people smiling for no good reason, so he frowns rather pointedly and narrows his eyes in a bid to look imposing enough to make France move aside. It doesn’t seem to shake him at all, however. England misses the days when he was capable of making all other nations piss their pants in fear. He got things done faster.

France just opens his mouth again with a cheerful little, “I trust you had a good trip?”

England’s eyes narrow even more. He’s being arsed around with and he knows it. He can see it in the Frog's ridiculous blue eyes. Yes, yes, make a mockery; it’s all he’s bloody good for. In fact, what could possibly make France so cheerful in the first plac–

His mind automatically changes the subject. “Absolutely fucking marvellous,” he says, thrusting his arm out, with a bottle of wine clutched hard and tight in his fingers like it might act as some form of crucifix against France's happiness and get him out of the way.

It fails to do so, however, and England can only try and squeeze past, making himself as small as possible. If he so much as brushes his coat against France's elbow, the other nation’s liable to mistake it as some kind of affection, and England really doesn't want to have to deal with cheek kissing on top of everything else at this moment in time. “In fact,” he carries on, “I can’t wait to do it all again tomorrow.”

“That’s good to hear,” France says, not missing a beat and England hates it. He hates everything. The only small comfort is that he can jolt his arm away from France once the bottle of wine is taken off him. He’s almost inside at any rate, and then he can leave France to mob Wales and the others and give his head some peace.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” France simpers, easing forward and pressing a kiss against England’s cheek that just about makes his fingers curl up and attempt to evict themselves from his body as France finally moves his arse and England barges the rest of the way past him, feeling sullied. “We can drink this with our lunch.”

The slimy feeling of France germs multiplying and swarming upon his face causes England to give his entire cheek a harsh scrubbing with his coat sleeve, marching towards the kitchen as he does so. He quickly becomes aware that France isn’t playing by the prescribed script England had already set out, because he hears him padding along behind.

And that horrid feeling of Frenchness isn’t going away. He’ll have to bleach his skin later. Or perform some sort of magic on it. Or both.

“I wouldn’t have bothered, but Wales insisted,” England says, and then makes a massive point to ignore France at all costs, even as he once again hears Wales complain rather breathlessly about needing a hand from the direction of the front door. He dismisses it, and gets to work pulling out just the right number of mugs.

Wait, no, he needs one more, for the foul creature trying to defile his little brother. Does Iceland even like tea? Tough luck if he doesn’t, he should have thought about that before he came along. Next year he can stay with his brothers. Everyone can, and it would be a much happier world for all.

“Actually, _Angleterre_ ,” France says, which gives England even more reason to busy himself with his tea making; a finely honed talent that usually serves to block almost all unwanted noise from the system. “I was hoping to speak to you about Scotland.” England hears France turn the bottle of Californian wine on the counter, apparently scrutinising it. “I don’t suppose he’s been talking to you at all?”

All England really catches from that is something about Scotland and talking and little else besides. Can’t France see he’s interrupting a very delicate operation? One that requires maximum concentration lest the tea come out at the wrong strength and ruin the experience for everyone involved. “About what, exactly?” he grits out.

“A few things, really,” France says, making England almost scoff and roll his eyes. Oh, he’s getting a list, is he? How wonderful. Apparently, he didn’t want to have some tea and relax like he'd thought, he actually wanted to listen to the frog have a good old rant about things. It’s a good thing everyone knows him so much better than he knows himself. “He’s been very distracted today. Not to mention he changed the bed sheets and wore his good clothing. Not that I mind those things, you understand.”

England doesn’t understand, mainly because he’s not really listening. However, France doesn’t start talking again and England feels compelled to make a small noise to demonstrate he’s at least paying the bare minimum of attention.

“Then he started to cook and I wasn’t aware that he’d been taking lessons, but I suppose Romano might have shown him how. I was so touched by it that I tried to show my appreciation, but he wouldn’t let me near his zipper, and then he took off!”

_Zipper_.

England freezes at the very utterance of the word, only slowly getting himself back into gear by opting out of questioning further. Likely France is just being lewd for the sheer sake of it, because he’s a wanker and a pervert, not unlike various others England feels the need to scorn silently.

He chooses to simply wander off in search of milk to go with the various scatterings of sugar and teabags now lingering at the bottom of Scotland’s mugs. The milk is quickly secured, but England makes a temporary halt to regard the level of food in the fridge. It backs up whatever France was talking about with the cooking, he supposes; there's more food inside than he’s seen there since, well, ever.

“I’m not sure what you’re upset about, France,” England says, shutting the fridge door with a gentle shove and unscrewing the lid from the two litre bottle of milk. “None of that sounds _bad_ in any way. A little uncharacteristic, perhaps, but hardly worrying,” he reassures blandly, because he’s known Scotland to behave far worse than doing the odd spot of cooking and cleaning. Threatening to have a good go at attacking Wales with a knife to the groin last year being the first thing that comes to mind, and putting up with France at all comes a close second.

He distracts himself from these annoyances by having an inquisitive prod at the coffee maker. A few tilts of his head and an experimental poke at the top of it assures him that he neither knows how to use the device, nor has any care to figure it out. France and Romano can have tea, and England doesn’t care if they have a good old whimper about it, either; which they will, because they’re coffee drinking cretins.

“It’s just very strange,” France carries on. “He keeps losing things and muttering to himself about things being out of place. He even pushed me out of bed this morning. He doesn't seem to remember how he likes his own tea, and looked at a photograph of us earlier like he'd never seen it before.”

England almost tells France to stop moaning about so much trivial nonsense and just let him drink his tea, but something in the statement does ring as unusual.

“I thought perhaps you'd done something to his memory,” France says with a slightly accusing tone and a waggle to his wrist that has some connotation of foul magical doings as far as England can make out from his brief peek in France's direction, “because he even forgot his bank pin and tried to use a photo of me as a Tesco coupon.”

England's ears prick up once again at that sentiment, his eyebrows knotting together in a mild amount of confusion, and it draws his tea preparations to a sickening, grinding halt. Scotland doesn’t forget _anything_ as far as England knows.

The fact that France seems eager to blame him is an annoyance as well, adding to the unreasonable levels of it England feels he’s been subjected to today.

“I certainly haven't done anything to him,” he hisses in self-defence. “Wales wouldn‘t dare,” he adds, even though he feels his older brother doesn’t really deserve to be shielded, “and Scotland's always had the memory of a particularly observant elephant. Occam's razor would therefore suggest he was just being a wanker. Are you sure he really forgot and wasn't just pissing around?”

“I’d hardly be asking if I thought he was merely pissing around,” France responds in an infuriatingly aloof way, taking the time to study his fingernails and make an expression that suggests he thinks England must be very slow. England chooses to ignore it, however, because he’s left his tea unattended and he’s not letting the frog send him off target anymore. It's likely his part of his game, as well, the unsympathetic bastard. “I think I’ve known him long enough to know the difference.”

England scoffs inwardly, doubting France's capacity towards understanding the inner workings of a cardboard box, let alone the turgid mind of his older brother. It may have been three years, but it’s hardly a long enough time for England to imagine that France has magically changed and put aside all his flippancies and his roaming eye and somehow become _better_. Not that he cares one bit about his brother's feelings, mind you; he hardly even noticed the centuries upon centuries of watching those feelings get mercilessly crushed underfoot, and he barely registered the number of times Scotland would take his frustrations out on anyone so long as they weren’t France. It’s up to Scotland in the end if he’d rather trust the ever deceptive France instead of England. It just seems terribly dishonest to England’s mind.

And dishonesty is one of the worst crimes a person can commit, right up there with murder and treason and leaving sodden teabags on the counter instead of putting them in the bin. It's not as though he likes his brother, but he believes there should be a justice to the world, and France has wronged the whole family too many times. Yet there he is in Scotland’s kitchen, talking like he knows anything and that it’s somehow all England's fault. Who does France think he is?

Hmph.

A wary, rather dubious sounding noise dribbles out of England’s mouth as he tips water into his mug. His eyes skirt to France in a bid to read whatever expression the other nation might be wearing

He looks only mildly annoyed and perhaps a little curious, and England shifts his attention back to his mug. Soon he can enjoy his tea and escape to somewhere that France isn’t currently inhabiting.

“And what exactly were you expecting me to do about it, anyway?” England asks. He’s certainly not done anything to Scotland, and if Scotland thought he had, England’s sure his brother would be down here attempting to wring necks, not relying on France to defend him. Though, the idea that France has somehow weakened Scotland in some way is an interesting one.

“I thought you could undo whatever you did,” France says, with a sharp tilt of his head that sends his blond hair whirling. England wonders if he might be able to fit a human head inside a blender at the sight, because France's expression is largely dismissive, mixed with that unrelenting hint of self importance that England has always thought misplaced. “Or offer some insight into what might be wrong.”

England scoffs again at the very idea that he might know anything about what his brother is thinking (besides the usual helping of nothing, swearing and cooing over France like a lovesick child). France, however, targets England with his eyes, shifting his weight and folding his arms.

“I suppose my concern got the better of me,” France adds.

England makes only a distanced noise, because he couldn't care less for France's concerns. Instead, he gets to work finishing up his tea making, giving it a good healthy stir before taking a small sip. He finds it somehow less satisfying when France refuses to stop staring at him, silently and judgementally.

Like a French owl.

What a horrid thought.

England can’t contain the sigh that overtakes him; the one that demonstrates just how much he’s suffering and that France should be ashamed of himself for daring to intrude upon the simple pleasure of tea.

“Well,” he says, if only to get France off his case, leave him alone and take that filthy expression off his face. “I suppose I could talk to him.” He watches France's eyebrows rise and his face relax into something that looks a little relieved, not that England knows why. “ _After_ I’ve had my cup of tea,” he finishes, to let France know that it’ll be on _his_ terms at the very least.

France merely smiles; the same victorious, smarmy little smile that he’s worn all too often since they were children.

England hates that smile.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 8:25 am**

 

The whole corridor feels a little foggy as he saunters through it, and he can hear the sound of Scotland taking off up the stairs with the bags, feet falling heavy as they always do. Ireland pauses to consider the things he’s aware of.

_The man upstairs isn’t his brother._

A thought he’d find ridiculously hard to swallow if it wasn’t for the sense of tightness in his chest, caused by a small, barely there misstep in the shared beat of their magical heart.

A heart that grew into two from one whole, and Ireland can’t think of a reason why it would be out of sync unless his Scotland was indeed gone completely, because his familiar wavelength is just not there.

Ireland suddenly feels incredibly lonely. Other-Scotland’s magic is almost the same but it’s missing a certain something, and it’s unsettling.

He’d never imagined before that he could just accept Scotland not being there, but it appears to be the case and the fact he comes to terms with it so easily is a startling one. There’s somebody new who looks like Scotland, and possibly they are still a form of Scotland, but they’re not really the person he grew up with and if he wants to get his brother back and acquire his old comforting sense of completeness then he’ll probably just have to go along with what the other sod in Scotland’s familiar tank of a body might say.

He's still Scotland after all, and Scotland is inherently trustworthy. Except for that one time, but they try not to discuss that.

Of course, this could all be some huge trick, and he toys quickly with the idea of punching his brother hard enough in the face as to break his nose and make him fess up. He gets the feeling that all he’d do is get bad vibes from beyond the grave, or dimension, each time Other-Scotland thought about him.

Other-Scotland. What a demented idea he’s embraced. Maybe he has lost his mind entirely. He always thought it might happen.

He perks up however when he notices France edging out of Scotland’s kitchen, mug in hand and looking a bit put out, only noticing Ireland when he happens to glance up. His eyebrows dip on his face and his little frown hurts to look directly at. He seems not to have taken being ignored very well.

Ireland decides it’s likely good for him anyway.

“Did you and _Écosse_ have your talk, _Irlande_?’ France asks when Ireland is close enough to smell the coffee as its strong scent wafts through the air, underscored by that fucking cologne and a taste that ebbs into the back of Ireland's throat.

It tastes like an old memory: a vineyard on a warm day, the chirping of insects and a warm breeze, the taste of sunshine and fresh bread and wines. Not one in particular, just wine. It tastes of bittersweet fondness and smiles that linger too long.

It tastes of deception.

“Aye,” Ireland says to stop his own running imagination, to focus on things he’s learned, as uncomfortable as they may be. Not to shove them aside for more familiar emotions that flare up and nagging thoughts that without Scotland around, he could easily have France for his own if he wanted.

Tastes of a treachery he’d thought long buried.

“We did actually,” Ireland carries on, forcing the smile on his face to remain pleasant. Because otherwise it might look a little pained and wan at its corners like a small shivering dog. “He just wanted me to give him some tips about getting his independence. Forgot to get him something for Christmas this year, you know what he’s like.” He rolls his eyes with a shrug that helps him shake off the utterly bemused look on France's face.

“ _Oui_ ,” France mumbles. He looks entirely unconvinced and his little scowl returns; perhaps aware he’s being lied to.

Ireland merely continues smiling as charmingly as he can and hopes France isn’t feeling too argumentative. Best to keep talking; redirection is his best friend.

“Anyway,” he says, rolling his hand gently before letting his brows rise on his face, “I was thinking I might have a shower to freshen up from the long trip.” He hooks an arm neatly around France’s slim shoulders, carefully ignoring how well they seem to fit together. “But you seem a bit flustered, and I thought you might like to have one before me.”

France clasps his fingers a little tighter around his mug as he takes in this gesture, the soft, slightly untrustworthy looking smile that graces Ireland's features.

His expression lifts and shines at the idea though his lips thin into a judgemental little line, like the perforated edge on a sheet of notebook paper. “A shower?” France says, as Ireland opts towards steering him towards the stairs, “Surely you mean a bath, much more relaxing.”

“Right, fantastic, even better." Now he has France's attention, he unhooks his arm and trundles up the stairs, listening as France diligently follows at a more relaxed pace into the bathroom. “A nice long bath will do you a world of good.” And by extension, do Other-Scotland and Ireland a massive favour by staying firmly out of the way.

Ireland is so engaged in rooting through Scotland’s toiletries by the bathtub – in hope of finding something at least lavender scented – that he doesn’t notice the way France sets his coffee aside and eases the door closed until he hears the harsh thud of Scotland’s lock. He peers up from where he kneels to find France smiling down at him.

He should have seen this coming and realised exactly how such a plan could go wrong.

Fuck, he’s either very stupid, or part of him just really wants to get laid.

He opts for the former, because he doesn’t regard himself as any type of sexual creature at all, and because the latter helps only to bring colour to his face trickling out across the bridge of his nose and burning into his cheeks at the way France leans ever so slightly forward, eyes narrowed and gleaming; the way his hair falls loose from its mooring behind an ear and gets pushed aside only to fall free again.

How his lips part into a smile that’s halfway between being sensual and filthy.

“You’re being very helpful, _mon ami_ ,” France purrs. ”I don’t suppose this has to do with the apology you owe me?”

“Yes, exactly,” Ireland blurts out thoughtlessly, his mind now completely removed from which bubble bath scent France might like and firmly set on making a daring scuttle backwards that’s brought to an abrupt halt when France’s hand grabs a hold of his T-shirt.

The only thing Ireland's startled, testosterone-addled mind can find to focus on is the fact that France appears to have misplaced his bloody coat, because he can’t see it on his shoulders. He only sees well tailored blue material and the skin of France's neck, and –

He really must stop doing this to himself.

“I mean, no, I’m just –” Ireland starts out, but he’s interrupted by France leaning closer, his fingers digging into his skin through the thin fabric.

“It’s not like you to be so obvious in your flirtations, _mon amour_ ,” France groans out while he teases his fingers through Ireland's curls, easing closer with a barely there tug of fabric and hair that Ireland succumbs to far too easily. “Perhaps our time together has awakened something within you, _oui_?”

France takes a second to flick his eyes up to Ireland's face, handsome and masculine and so difficult to read at times that it drives him crazy. The way his Adam's apple ripples on his neck as he swallows hard. The warm scent of tobacco and fine Irish whiskeys, undercut with rain and mist and the lingering aroma of the Irish Sea that still haunts his skin. The strange otherworldly tang of something France has never managed to place despite his knowledge of colognes, shampoos and body washes. It’s intoxicating.

“Oh, something’s awakened alright,” Ireland labours out, his lungs feeling so devoid of air that the words tremble as they leave his body; a body whose limbs have now turned to jelly because his arse is being tightly groped.

The loud clatter they make against the bathroom door when France pulls him into an unsteady kiss is almost lost to Ireland, his skin now furiously red, and sinking into that kiss with the kind of easiness that he’s always assumed was reserved for hammed up French romance movies. He only catches himself on when he realises his hands are hovering by France’s waist, unsure of where they should rest, grip or unbutton.

And the way France tightens his grip on Ireland's hair is at least painful enough to snap him out of his lusty simple-minded desires and to brace his hands against the dark wood, giving himself the leverage to wrench his face away and pant softly.

“Wait, this isn’t what I meant at all!” he argues, voice taking an undignified sharpness of tone when France's fingers dig a little deeper into his buttocks and France runs his nose along Ireland's jaw line with an amused sounding chuckle.

“Then why on earth did you suggest it?”

It’s honestly a good question, one that Ireland can only assume draws back to the fact he’s a glutton for punishment, and surprisingly thoughtless when it comes to France and getting trapped in places with him. Ireland merely tries to ease himself free. “I don’t even know.”

Except France’s grip tightens absurdly, and his leg moves treacherously into that particularly sensitive area of Ireland's thigh that only he seems able to locate. “I think having a bath together would be very engaging.” France says, lowering his voice to a whisper so hoarse that Ireland turns to butter at the very thought. “Just like that time in Paris.”

A sense of delayed cynicism sweeps over Ireland. He remembers that morning, and to be honest it’s not exactly a romantic memory at all. Unless spending the night in a puddle of cold water wearing only your boxers to ease the mounting discomfort counts as romantic, which Ireland is sure that it doesn’t. It had also been a solo venture, with France happening upon the scene in the morning and taking far too much glee in it.

“That’s not even what happened,” Ireland argues breathlessly, wincing as France's leg wanders a little higher and the blond makes a small questioning noise and cocks his brow. “I was just too hot.”

The small twitter of laughter that bubbles from France's throat is a pretty sound that distracts Ireland, if only a little, from the way France draws his fingers across his scalp and eases their faces together, until France's stubble tickles his skin, soft lips press themselves into Ireland's jaw line and move swiftly down his throat.

“And we spent the night by the pool?” France carries on, his fingers finding their way down to shirt buttons, and getting them open with what Ireland decides might be too much ease. “We drank wine and talked about the stars. It was very romantic.”

Ireland goes to argue that they’d only sat by the pool so Ireland could continue his practice of cooling down in cold water without spending the night in a bathtub, and that the only reason they’d discussed the stars at all while they enjoyed the little bit of wine left over from their dinner was that France hadn’t known a single constellation and Ireland had been compelled to start teaching. If he’d suspected France saw it as anything more than that he’d have not bothered his backside!

“But we’re in Scotland’s bathroom right now and –” He doesn’t get a chance to turn his arguments into words however, because he feels France undo the button to his jeans and slide his fly down prompting a flurry of: “For fuck sake!”

“You’re always so uptight.” France says. “You need to learn to relax when we do this.”

He takes the time to push a strand of his hair behind an ear once more and smiles what Ireland supposes is meant to be a comforting and persuasive little smile. That goes along with his fingers trailing themselves along Ireland's stomach.

The sensation it causes however is something akin to an electric shock, burning Ireland's skin and sending an unpleasant searing pain along his entire nervous system, sending him flailing backwards and colliding with the wall behind him, catching the small of his back on the treacherous edge of a curtain hook.

“What are you doing?” Ireland hisses, shivering slightly, and still feeling the fingers run themselves across his flesh.

“It’s called undressing,” France offers, reaching out and gripping Ireland's wrist, easing his thumb across the back of it in comforting sweeps. “Since you’re no good at doing it yourself.”

His hand snaps away of its own free will as it dawns on Ireland that this is Scotland’s bathroom, his brother's house and home. And it causes him to feel instantly filthy, a familiar wave of self loathing to gripping his chest and yanking fiercely on his organs until his entire body feels aflame with it.

He starts to ease himself around France and towards the door, eyes focused on the blond like he’s some powerful predator hell bent on clawing him to pieces if he dares look away. He finally reaches the door and presses his back to it, his fingers struggling to find any purchase on the lock.

His eyebrows fall sharply on his face and he bares his teeth slightly. “What about Scotland?” he asks, attempting once more to stamp his feet down on his own desires and hopefully keep them there this time, not to be drawn out by a few cheap embraces.

“Is that what’s bothering you?” France asks with a coy smile and a roll of his eyes followed by a little cluck of his tongue as he seems to consider his options. “He can join us is you’d like,” he says finally, because it’s a proposition he’s always considered yet got nothing but stubborn refusal from Ireland each time.

The very idea of such a thing serves to make Ireland feel enormously ill, he’s never considered Scotland massive brawny frame to be particularly attractive and even if he did, the two of them are practically twins. They’d shared the same crib together, for fuck sake! Fought too many times. Grown too distant yet still remained so tightly linked.

It’d be a strain on their already tenuous trust, besides, and Ireland can only remind himself that brotherhood is more important than a quick shag and that he should remember it a bit fucking faster in future. He can have any nation he likes, but he can’t touch France.

Even if France touches him so skilfully that he forgets his own bloody ethics on the matter.

His fingers finally get a good grip on the lock and he throws it quickly, wrenching the door open and making a sweat soaked bid for freedom. It’s only when he barrels headfirst into Scotland that he remembers his jeans are undone, shirt buttons in no better state and it takes him a fleeting moment to even remember why he was trying to talk France into this ridiculous venture in the first place.

He manages to choke out a loud, impulsive “ _Nope_ ,” before taking off with such conviction that he nearly trips himself on the stairs in his haste to redo his zipper.


	8. Chapter 8

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 1:05 pm**

  
  
One of Wales' erstwhile boyfriends, a therapist of somewhat dubious credentials, had been a great believer in the power of positive thinking (and also crystals; he'd been correct on that score, at least, if not for any of the right reasons), something he insisted Wales could benefit from whenever he was feeling particularly anxious about an upcoming event.  
  
And Wales had tried today, he really had, hoping that if he remained cheerfully upbeat with sufficient determination, he might somehow bend reality around himself in turn, thus ensuring that they all avoided a repeat of their last Hogmanay disaster.  
  
He tried focusing on everything he was looking forward to: the delicious food France would serve; spending time with Ireland, whom he didn't get to see as often as he liked; and pickling his brain in enough alcohol that everything else would become moot in the end, anyway.  
  
(The very faint possibility that Romano won't be quite as abrasive and difficult as usual, so that Wales might be able to catch a calm moment to have the conversation that has been overdue for quite a while now. It's not even a conversation as much as it's a question – and a multiple choice one with only two possible answers, at that – and the fact that Wales hasn't found the chance to pose it at any point over the last six months should probably have caused him to rethink the wisdom of asking it, anyway.)  
  
Reality has proved itself unsurprisingly inflexible, however; chipping away with an England-shaped chisel at Wales' carefully built optimism, which now feels about ready to crumble away entirely with the next hard knock.  
  
Northern Ireland's relentless foul mood, which had hung over the entire morning like a miasma, was only a gentle tap in comparison, as was his brothers' and Romano's apparent belief that their luggage would magically transport itself inside Scotland's house somehow if they wandered off and left it to its own devices.  
  
It did strike Wales halfway up the stairs that it might have been more sensible to make two trips, or better yet, insist that everyone carry their own damn bags instead of loading himself up like a packhorse, but once he committed himself and picked up momentum, it became impossible to stop without unbalancing and likely ending up on his arse.  
  
He throws his cargo down onto the sofa bed as soon as he staggers into Scotland's study, and both Northern Ireland's and England's bags land heavily, England's making a series of dull clunking thuds as it settles, as if it might be full of bricks. That does seem unlikely, though it would explain why Wales' left arm had been starting to go numb.  
  
As that noise dissipates, Wales becomes aware of another, drifting through the wall from the bathroom next door: a rhythmic shuffling thump that sounds very much like big, ponderous feet striking a tiled floor as their big, ponderous owner paces back and forth. Scotland, it seems, is hiding away from his guests again, albeit not making as good a job of it as he usually would. Wales doesn't blame him for trying – England and France have probably settled into their first row of the day already – but that doesn't mean he should be allowed to get away with it. One of the most essential roles of a host, as Wales sees it, is acting as a lightning rod for that sort of unpleasantness, so the guests can go unperturbed about their role of eating nibbly things, making small talk, and drinking their own weight in whatever alcohol is on offer.  
  
Scotland obviously isn't on his best form, because the bathroom door hasn't been shut to, either, and Wales can see through the gap that his brother is not only lumbering about, but seemingly muttering under his breath, as well. Wales hopes that he's giving himself a pep talk, steeling himself for the day ahead so as to delay – or even fend off entirely – an explosion of the type of violent arseholishness that had overcome him last year, although, unfortunately, it is more likely that he's preparing a battery of curses in expectation of the same.    
  
Whatever he's actually up to, what he _should_ be doing is pouring drinks and pretending to be happy to see everybody, and Wales isn't going to go back downstairs himself without reminding Scotland of that fact, or indeed pointing out that his brother's already been remiss in his hostly duties.  
   
To that end, he pokes his head through the crack in the door and says, "Thanks for your help with the luggage, _Yr Alban_. Much appreciated."  
                    
Scotland's movements stop so suddenly it's as though someone's thrown an off switch on his body; locking his arms, legs and even mouth – hanging open with a half-finished word on his lips – firmly in place. His strange immobility only lasts for a second or two, however, before he swivels on his heel just as abruptly, and lurches towards Wales.   
  
"You and me need to talk," he growls, grabbing hold of a clumsy handful of Wales' clothing, and hauling him inside the bathroom before Wales can even think to react.  
  
"What the hell?" Wales grumbles, glaring at the hand at his chest until both it and his brother as a whole retreat. His cardigan springs easily back into shape, but the shirt beneath remains crumpled, even after he tries to tug the fabric smooth again. "You could have just asked, you know. Is there any particular reason for the intimidation tactics, or did you suddenly realise you're slipping and haven't manhandled me for months"  
  
The snick of a lock sliding into place makes him look up. And up. Jesus, when did Scotland get so _big_? He's standing with his chest puffed out, his spine rigid and shoulders thrown back instead of slightly rounded like they usually are; almost entirely blocking the door with his bulk as he stands in front of it.  
  
He looks much more imposing than he usually does – has done for _decades_ – and it makes Wales feel incredibly small in comparison, reminding him forcibly of how it used to be when he was a child, and Scotland seemed like a giant. A perpetually pissed off giant with the tendency to smack Wales with little to no notice. He feels his own shoulders start to curl in response, his head start to droop as his eyes seek out his feet; an instinctive attempt to make himself look as inoffensive as possible and deflect any of his brother's ire that might be directed his way. It had rarely worked – Scotland would usually call him 'servile' or 'snivelling' and hit him even harder – but it was the only defence he had, and it's still ingrained in his body, seemingly, even though he thought he'd finally started to outgrow it.  
  
His voice, too, seems to have regressed to that time, growing high and thin – childlike – as he stammers out, "What would you like to talk about?"  
  
"Listen, Irel–" Scotland's mouth slams shut, and his eyebrows scrunch close above the bridge of his nose, as though he's deep in thought. "Wales," he continues after a moment's pause, leaning in towards Wales as he talks, eyes glinting hard and cold. "I have something very important to tell you. What I'm going to say is the truth, so no laughing or doubting, ya ken?"  
   
His brother's proximity, and the force of his scowl, makes Wales' heart race faster and his chest grows so tight that he can barely force the air out of his lungs, never mind a word from his throat. He eventually manages a shaky nod, however, because he doubts anything Scotland could possibly say at this moment could ever make him laugh. Curl up into a little ball in the corner of the room, maybe. Laugh? Not a chance.                 
                  
"I'm not Scotland," Scotland says, his voice low and serious, and then immediately contradicts himself with: 'Well I am. I suppose." The look of deep concentration returns momentarily. "What I mean to say here is, I'm not _your_ Scotland."  
  
Wales blinks rapidly, and then stares hard at his brother. He looks _exactly_ the same as he usually does, bar the looming. Is this some sort of elaborate joke? Alternately scaring and confusing Wales until he cracks, so that Scotland… can go and have a good laugh about it, presumably?  
  
The thought makes the majority of Wales' nervousness drain away, to be replaced by a hint of irritation. "You do a very good impression of him," he says, refusing to be drawn into making even more of a fool of himself than he already has.  
              
"I don't look like this usually. This is meant to be red," Scotland says, motioning jerkily towards his hair, and then to his eyes. "And these are usually blue." His expression slips towards something softer, something a little lost and disheartened, but it closes off again just as quickly. "I woke up in a life that isn't really mine, and your brother is likely stuck with mine wherever my own body is."  
  
He certainly seems sincere enough, so perhaps he might have hit his head, and actually believes the crap he's spouting. Or…  
             
"Oh," Wales says, as comprehension slowly dawns. It's fucking ridiculous, to be sure, but hardly without precedence "So you reckon you've swapped bodies with him, then?" He chuckles ruefully. "Jesus, what the hell have we done this time? You know, exactly the same shit happened only a few weeks ago, but that was just between me and my brothers, not..."  
  
Wales pauses as he tries to figure out how to classify this other Scotland who claims to be inhabiting his brother's body. Nothing that sounds even remotely sensible occurs to him, so he finishes with the slightly vague, "Not wherever it is you've come from. Where the hell did you come from, anyway? There's only one Scotland nowadays, as far as I'm aware."  
            
"Fucked if I know," Scotland says bluntly. "This house is practically the same as mine. Except with fewer tables and a France. Photographs everywhere. No food to be found." He folds arms and leans back against the door. "I was hoping you lot might actually know something about it. Barely know if I'm coming or going around here."  
           
Wales shakes his head helplessly; he's never heard of such a thing ever happening to any nation, nor come across so much as a mention of a spell that might have caused it. "Sorry, I have absolutely no idea. I didn't even know that there was a..." Wales' slightly dazed mind finally finishes processing everything Scotland's said, and beyond the irrelevant grouching about his brother's décor and supplies, one detail niggles at him. "You don't have a France where you come from?"  
          
Scotland – no, Other-Scotland, apparently – looks completely thrown by the question, his face fogged by confusion for a moment.  "Well there's _a_ _France_ to be sure. Looks exactly the bloody same and everything, but he's not… present," he says, with a loose shrug, the nonchalance of which is at odds with the slow downward slump of the rest of his body. This gentle collapse is halted almost as soon as it starts, however, as Other-Scotland straightens up again, bearing himself stiff and proud in a way that Wales suspects is probably making his muscles ache, given that his brother rarely holds that posture for more than a few minutes at a time, usually, and only then when he's so filled with anger and adrenaline that he probably never even notices his body complaining. "That hardly matters, I just want to know if you or any of your... Our... Fuck, I don't even know… siblings might have any spells powerful enough to get me home?"  
  
France isn't present? Wales is intrigued – Does he mean that he and his own France have nothing to do with one another at all? Or just that they're not lovers, or even friends? – but this other Scotland's right, it's not important right now. "That's... quite unlikely, really. We've never had much luck with dealing with this sort of thing before. We can certainly try, though. _Iwerddon_ should be here soon, and –"  
  
Wales is interrupted by the door handle rattling, and England's brusque, "Scotland? Are you in there? The frog said..." He trails into a silence for a time, which is eventually broken by a loud, irritated-sounding sigh. "I need to speak to you, and I'd rather not do it through the door."  
      
"England?" Other-Scotland says, apparently recognising the voice, even though Wales is sure they can't possibly have crossed paths already.  
  
He quickly glances towards Wales, perhaps looking for advice or permission, but he doesn't wait for either before he turns, unlocks the door and cautiously opens it.  
  
"Thank you," England says, sounding exasperated and not particularly grateful. "Now, as I was say–"  
  
The rest of England's words are lost to a strangled gasp of surprise as Other-Scotland grabs hold of his shoulders and drags him inside the bathroom with as little care and delicacy as he had handled Wales earlier. He quickly relocks the door behind him and then slumps his weight against it, staring at England with round, startled eyes.  
  
"Bloody hell," he says, his voice muted and a little shaky.  
  
England returns the look blankly for a moment, his skin slightly ashen and his shoulders rising and falling laboriously, obviously shocked and fighting to regain his composure. Wales recognises the exact moment he finds it, as his eyes sharpen into a familiar glare; the one he reserves only for Scotland.  "What the fuck do you think you're doing?" he barks, fingers stiffening into claws at his sides.  
    
Other-Scotland gets Scotland's customary answering frown down perfectly, which makes Wales wonder if it's actually hard-wired into that body, and therefore a completely involuntary reaction. "I was trying to explain before you interrupted."  
  
Other-Scotland draws himself back up into his slightly menacing stance again, but his eyes wander towards Wales, and they contain less animosity than the angry tone of his voice implies.   
   
England follows Other-Scotland's gaze, and seems to notice Wales' presence for the first time. "What are you doing here?" he asks, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. "Don't think I've forgotten what happened the last time you two locked yourselves in a room together. What are you planning now?  
   
Wales holds hands up placatingly. "Nothing, _Lloegr_ , honestly," he says, pouring every ounce of sincerity he can muster into the words and hoping England believes them accordingly. They only just managed to avoid a rehash of that whole sorry business on the drive here, and he definitely doesn't want to get into it in front of Other-Scotland.  "I got dragged in here against my will just the same as you. Look, you really should just listen to _Yr Alban_."  
   
England, thankfully, seems convinced, but only enough to not throw another accusation. He certainly doesn't look any more kindly disposed towards Other-Scotland. "Come on, then," he says combatively, folding his arms tight across his chest. "Spit it out if it's so important. I'm all ears."  
   
"Fine." Other-Scotland's jaw visibly tightens, and he returns England's scowl double-fold. "I got swapped out of my own body and into this one. I'm not your brother. Don't know where he is or why it happened."  
  
England scoffs sceptically, but Wales can feel him questing towards Other-Scotland with his magic, nevertheless; something Wales should have done, and would have done, he assures himself, if he hadn't been so unsettled by Other-Scotland's demeanour earlier. The magic that replies to England's isn't quite Scotland's, but it is close enough that it does seem to corroborate his story; a few skipped notes, but a familiar melody all the same.  
  
"Jesus," England breathes, sitting down heavily on the edge of the bath, as though catching himself before his legs can give out entirely. "Well, I suppose this explains what France was whinging on about, anyway," he mutters under his breath, and then, slightly louder, "And I suppose you want our help in trying to," he flicks one hand out dismissively, like he's swatting at a fly, "send yourself back to wherever it is you've come from."  
  
"I'd say that would be to everyone's benefit, wouldn't you?" Other-Scotland snaps.  
  
"I suppose so," England says, but going by the thoughtful, slightly scheming expression on his face, Wales suspects that he's wondering if there might be a way to send this Scotland home and not get their own back in return.  
         
Which is something Wales can't even begin to countenance, and he scowls at England, making sure his brother is well aware of how untenable he thinks even entertaining that idea is.  "Yes, it would," he says sharply, before turning his attention to Other-Scotland and summoning up a small, lopsided smile for him. The poor guy must be having a hard enough time of it already – what with finding himself in a strange body and house, which apparently has a terrible dearth of tables and superfluity of both photographs and France – without England stirring the pot and making it sound as though they won't do their best to get him home, which he's no doubt missing.  
  
"I don't suppose you have any suggestions on what sort of spell might work to reverse this?" Wales asks, hoping to reassure Other-Scotland that he, at least, is willing to help towards that goal. "Every time this has happened to us before, we've just sort of... waited around until it wore off. But, then again" – Wales has to swallow hard to unstick the words, which are so bloody preposterous his mouth seems unwilling to disgorge them – "different realities weren't involved then.  
  
They sound just as farcical out loud as they did in his head, making him feel as though he's living in one of the really far fetched sci-fi films Scotland likes but Wales finds impossible to take seriously as his suspension of disbelief is far less elastic than his brother's.  
         
"And with magic this powerful, there's no telling how long it might take," England says with an air of great authority and certainty that Wales knows his brother doesn't actually possess, having had no more experience with this particular spell than Wales himself (namely none). "It could be weeks, months, or even years."  
        
Other-Scotland's shoulders sag slightly, and Wales feels his own do the same, as his thoughts wander away from their discussion towards his own brother, and how he might be coping in this Scotland's world, away from everything familiar and _without France_. He'll definitely be trying everything in his power to get back, too, but then Scotland's always been pretty shite at any spells more delicate than curses, so it's doubtful he'll be having much luck. Hopefully, Other-Scotland's family will be able to help him, because Wales can't even bear to think of his brother being stuck there for what might be _years_ , simply waiting for the magic to loosen its hold and allow him to travel back to where he belongs.    
  
"A good cleansing circle has always worked for my family," Other-Scotland says, breaking through Wales' thoughts and dragging them back towards their own world and the things he does have some hope of changing again. "I've tried those, though, and it came to nothing." He swoops one finger through the air, drawing what looks like a circle that he then bisects vertically. "It's probably going probably going to take a lot of salt," he finishes, sounding thoughtful.  
       
That sounds encouraging, at least. " _Iwerddon_ 's good at cleansing spells, so –"  
       
"Salt?" England asks over Wales, though he's more likely just wanting to cut short the suggestion that Ireland might be more capable with even one type of magic than he is himself, rather than having any interest in the answer. "And that would help how?"  
       
Other-Scotland's expression can only be described as incredulous. "Salt is a magical amplifier," he begins, but is interrupted by the unmistakable stomping of Northern Ireland's feet attacking the stairs like he hates each and every step and wants to obliterate them, a state of mind usually induced by being asked to run an errand he doesn't much care for.  
  
Sure enough, their little brother's voice rings out above the heavy blows of his footfalls, sounding distinctly peevish. "England! Wales! Scotland! France says you have to get your arses downstairs because lunch is nearly ready. He couldn't come and tell you himself because the soup will spontaneously combust or something."  
     
Other-Scotland looks towards England and Wales questioningly, obviously more reticent about inviting Northern Ireland to join their conversation than he ever was about dragging Wales and England into it forcibly.  
  
England nods towards the door in reply. "Best let him in."  
  
The door is unlocked and opened with what appears to be even more caution this time, and Other-Scotland peers out into the hall instead of immediately grabbing hold of Northern Ireland. He appears shocked by what he sees, however, mouth falling open a little and his eyes widening. Wales can only guess that his own Northern Ireland looks completely different, or else theirs is looking even more truculent than his behaviour suggested.  
  
Other-Scotland actually steps aside, motioning for Northern Ireland to enter under his own steam rather than being pressing the matter. "You may as well come in here, too, lad," he says, his voice holding a faint note of something like gentleness that has been entirely absent throughout everything else he's said so far.  
  
Northern Ireland looks suspiciously at Other-Scotland as he sidles past him, probably thrown by that mellower tone, which is one their own Scotland reserves almost exclusively for France when he's sober. Once inside the bathroom, his eyes flit to Wales and then finally England, before he rolls them. "I'd ask what was going on, but I'm not sure I actually want to know," he says, squeezing between Wales and England's knees to sink down onto the closed toilet seat  
   
"This isn't actually our Scotland," Wales says helpfully, to save Other-Scotland the hassle of having to explain himself yet again. "He's the Scotland from another... reality or something, who's swapped bodies with ours." It seems no less bizarre the second time around, and Wales winces slightly. "We're just trying to figure out how to get them both back into the right ones.  
   
Northern Ireland obviously thinks it sounds just as ridiculous as Wales feels to say it, and his lips start to curl into a smirk, but then they suddenly flatten out as he visibly pales. "You don't think it was Norway again, do you?" he asks nervously.  
   
Other-Scotland looks up sharply, his hand dropping away from the lock he was apparently just about to set again. "Norway?" he asks, his gaze swinging towards England accusingly. "What did you do to Norway?"  
  
 England ignores him, focusing instead on Northern Ireland, his expression horrified. "North..."  
  
 "I didn't do anything!" Northern Ireland says emphatically,  
  
 "You said that last time."  
  
 "And I hadn't done anything then, either," Northern Ireland protests. "I keep telling you that."  
  
 England sneers, because he seems to have formed the impression that Northern Ireland has descended into unchecked hedonism with no evidence, as far as Wales can tell, beyond the fact that Norway's apparently just as overprotective and prone to overreaction as he is himself.  
  
Sensing that same argument brewing yet again, Wales jumps in quickly to divert his brothers' attentions and head it off before it can build any further. Aside from the pointlessness of it – because England only hears what he wants to hear sometimes, and especially on this particular subject – he doesn't want Other-Scotland to get a bad impression of them. He might actually have a nice, functional relationship with his own brothers.  
  
"It doesn't matter how it happened, we just need work out to fix it." A change of subject seems to be in order, because England's scowl hasn't lessened even a fraction, and Northern Ireland has the hounded look of someone who's backed into a corner, and willing to fight dirty to escape it. "Now, you were saying about salt?"  
  
Other-Scotland's gaze keeps bouncing back and forth between England and Northern Ireland, and his mouth has opened slightly as though he might be thinking about making an interjection, which would be a fucking dreadful idea, as England always escalates things the second Scotland gets involved, and Wales suspects that it wouldn't make a lick of difference that this technically isn't their brother. Thankfully, though, Wales' voice seems to distract Other-Scotland, drawing his attention back to the task at hand.  
  
"Oh, right," Other-Scotland says, blinking slowly. "Salt is a natural magical amplifier, representing life forces, the earth and....other things. It basically makes magic a bit more...potent. At least, Ireland's always said so.'  
  
Wales hasn't ever heard of such a thing, and Other-Scotland seems so uncertain that Wales has to wonder if perhaps he's misremembering the details, but he forges on, regardless, as any conversation that isn't an argument is a productive one. "So, we need to get salt. And perhaps try a stronger cleansing spell? With all of us," Wales sweeps his arm around, the gesture encompassing all four of them; Northern Ireland might refuse to learn any spells, but he does have the capacity, and they're probably going to need all the help they can get with an undertaking this huge, "and Iwerddon working together, we might have enough power to make it work."  
  
Wales is surprised at how confident he sounds, because he really is clutching at straws a little; this definitely isn't his area of expertise.  
            
"Sounds about right." Other-Scotland nods decisively, which is heartening. "My brother Wales is… Well, he's good at these sorts of delicate things."  
  
The praise sounds reluctant, and Wales mentally appends the 'and not much else' suggested by the dismissive expression currently gracing Other-Scotland's borrowed face; intimately familiar because it's one that his own Scotland has often worn when talking about him in the past. It makes him feel defensive of that other Wales, despite the fact that he has never and will never meet him, and he almost protests simply on principle, but the door swinging open so abruptly that it must have been kicked makes the words die in his throat, mainly as he has to concentrate on ducking out of the way to avoid being smacked in the face by it.  
         
The door kicker is, of course, Romano, and he stops dead as soon as he crosses the room's threshold, glowering around at everyone assembled within with equal ferocity. "What are you assholes all doing in here? I need to use the bathroom…"        
         
Other-Scotland stares at Romano as though he's never seen anything so fascinating in his life, or so surprising, given his slightly gormless expression. Wales braces himself for the question he's sure is coming – which always fucking comes – but England steps into the breach before he can preemptively start trotting out his prepared and well-practiced answer.  
  
"He's..." England glances at Wales, and then splutters to a halt, because the explanation he's likely to give isn't one he wants to repeat in front of either Wales or Romano. "Look, why don't we just all go and have our lunch? I don't think we're going to get any further with this until Ireland decides to put in appearance."  
  
He gets up from his perch on the side of the bath, and gives Other-Scotland a significant look that clearly states, 'I'll tell you about the whole ridiculous business when we get downstairs', to Wales. Much to his annoyance, Other-Scotland nods as though he's received the message loud and clear, too, and says, "Sounds fair."  
  
He troops out of the bathroom, then, closely followed by Northern Ireland and England, but Wales hangs back, halted by Romano's hissed, "What the fuck's going on?"  
  
"Slight family crisis," Wales says, but the explanation doesn't seem to appease Romano at all, judging by the continued sharp set of both his mouth and eyebrows. "I'll tell you about it later," he adds, even though that could well be a lie, as it’s rather dependent on how Other-Scotland wants to deal with his situation as to whether he'll be able to say anything at all.  
  
He reaches out with the vague intention of giving Romano's shoulder a comforting squeeze, but as sometimes happens when Romano's feeling particularly affronted, he shies away from the contact with such vehemence that it makes Wales feel as though he must unknowingly be threatening him with violence, instead.  
  
Wales sighs and drops his hand back down to his side. If Romano's mood is this sour already, then it seems very unlikely that he's going to get the opportunity to ask his question today, either.  
  
That realisation coupled with the slow-growing awareness of the enormity of his brother's predicament, which has still to unfurl entirely, form a firm enough blow to shatter Wales' wavering optimism entirely.  
  
Today, he decides, is going to be fucking awful all around.  
  


 

* * *

 

  
**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 8:40am**

 

 

The energetic grab for mugs, teabags and sugar helps Ireland focus all his frantic energy. Now his skin doesn’t seem to be burning up, at least, and as he pulls open the fridge to pull out the bottle of milk lurking inside Other-Scotland makes his appearance.

Ireland doesn’t look at him right away; finds himself incapable of it because it’s still his brother's face after all. He makes the effort to look resolved and like he takes the making of tea very seriously. Which he does, though not usually as seriously as he’s taking it right this second.

He dumps four sugars into Scotland’s mug along with hot water and a small dribble of milk before anything else, and then hands the tea to Other-Scotland, who accepts it silently and takes a sip, though Ireland doesn't fail to notice the tiny grimace the man makes. He feels compelled by it to pull out his hipflask from his pocket and tip a large measure of his emergency whiskey into his tea.

"We’ll have to think of something else,” Ireland says as he takes a swig, and enjoys how the hot liquid practically scalds the roof of his mouth.

Scotland makes a small noise of acceptance over the news and Ireland can’t help feeling like he’s being horribly scrutinised and judged, though he refuses to dwell on it. He’s only aware that they’re not saying anything, merely hovering around the counter.

"I don’t suppose there’s any of that going spare, mate?" Other-Scotland asks, nodding towards the hipflask before Ireland can put it away in his pocket.

He supposes he should be thankful that it wasn’t actually his brother who he bumped in to, otherwise his whole head might be missing right now.

Ireland slides the flask across the worktop to Other-Scotland with a meek smile to help lift his spirits. It at least allows his body to uncurl more towards its proper height, not remain all small and undignified as he leans on the counter.

"Help yerself.” Ireland's eyes slide towards the window, where he can see a robin sitting on the washing line, peering at something that must be pretty enticing to his little birdie eyes before the creature flutters away with a small peep of its voice. "I have more out in the car if we need it,” he adds, hoping they can perhaps have a decent booze-up and forget it all happened.

That seems like it might be a bad idea, though; like it might have been such a tactic that got him into this mess in the first place.

Scotland gets to work pouring a fair sized amount of the whiskey into his tea, and seems to find the drink a little more palatable to his senses afterwards, judging by his contented expression.

After a small amount of awkward silence Ireland draws in a large breath and lifts his mug to his lips to disguise the very heavy frown he feels grow on his face like a melancholic tumour.

"If there’s anything in the fridge I’m sure we can convince France to start cooking,” he says, suddenly realising that he didn’t even bother to check. "I can head out and get something if there isn’t.”

Actually shopping for ingredients France might deem worthy seems unlikely, however, as even Scotland struggles to do so, and he’s been trying on and off for years.

When Ireland chances a sidelong glance at the being formerly known as Scotland, he looks more interested in taking a swig from his tea before a thoughtful expression overtakes his face. Though to Ireland's eyes, the way Other-Scotland’s emotions tug at the corners of his mouth and use his eyebrows seems different, giving small, barely noticeable distortions to his brother's normal expressions, just enough for him to divide the two entities up but little more than that.

"There’s some mince, and cheese, and… stuff,” Other-Scotland says, shrugging his shoulders.

Ireland's not sure there’s much anyone can make out of mince and cheese and _stuff_ , but there are likely potatoes lying around and maybe an onion. More than enough for a shepherd's pie. Is that a French dish? Ireland isn’t entirely sure. He can’t imagine the French microwaving peas to go with their shepherd's pies somehow.

"So…” Scotland begins, and Ireland waits patiently for a conclusion, in case it's helpful, but the large redhead starts to look slightly pained by the effort of whatever thoughts he's caught in, eventually turning all his attention to his tea as if it contains some key answer.

"So,” Ireland echoes.

He suddenly feels very uninspired, his mind lingering on the idea that maybe France will fill him in on what ingredients he could possibly need and the latent memory of his earlier activities bombard his brain with such viciousness that he can only wince out a smile to cover it up, with the added precaution of drinking a little more of his tea. He feels the need to say something, lest he and Other-Scotland here just stop talking entirely, which seems incredibly unpleasant and unhelpful. Open communication is always a little more accommodating than nothing.

"How was the weather where you came from?” Ireland asks instinctively.

"It’s been blowing a fucking gale all bloody week,” Scotland chirps with the look of a man given a reprieve on his death sentence for the time being. "Nearly lifted France clean off his feet in the Tesco’s car park yesterday.” Then his enthusiasm seems to peter out, his whole body sinking slightly in the same way Ireland’s known his own brother's to do when something takes him emotionally off guard.

One thing rings interesting to Ireland, and that's the idea of France anywhere near a Tesco’s car park in what sounds a bit like a hurricane. He’s certainly never known their France – who's apparently decided to take that bath, after all, though Ireland refuses to go and check just in case – to go anywhere near a common supermarket in bad weather, and to go near one with Scotland is perhaps an even bigger rarity besides.

Ireland doesn’t think the two actually _do_ anything together; they only hang around each others' houses, screw and then go home again from his understanding of things. Though Scotland does tell tales of cooking and reminiscing and good times had by all, so perhaps Ireland merely misses the bigger picture.

Other-Scotland, however, is starting to turn incredibly red, and shuffling about like he might need a wee, so Ireland feels it’s only a kindness to snap him out of it.

"It’s funny, been blowing a storm all week back home, but the boat was alright and Fra–” The words ‘wouldn’t stop touching me in places’ override his brain, and once again wash him over with guilt. He meant to say something about them not getting banged about, but that’s hardly any better. He curses the part of his brain responsible for euphemisms. It always seems to strike him down when he’d much rather talk about horses or calligraphy or the act of writing calligraphy on horses, yet it always turns to sex in the end, doesn’t it?

He’s beginning to feel like he might have a problem and considers seeking out some kind of medical help.

Luckily, Other-Scotland looks less than interested in the way Ireland's face is now starting to reheat itself. A sense of embarrassment and tea being the only things the two seem intent to share by Ireland's accounts.

"That’s grand," Other-Scotland says, sounding distracted. This is followed by another awkwardly abortive attempt at a sentence. "So, France…"

"I’m guessing you and France are –" Ireland restarts, apparently in some lacklustre bid to have the same conversation Scotland’s apparently been trying to have himself, but he stops himself quickly and takes a long, paranoid looking drink from his mug before carrying on. "That is to say," he corrects suddenly, to sound less intrusive. "You have one too? Considering you seemed so taken with him when we arrived, I mean."

Which had struck Ireland as being strangely _in character_ , right down to the glaring and wanting to lock Ireland out of the house entirely, judging by the looks that had been on Other-Scotland's borrowed face.

"Aye, we’ve, um, got one, too," Scotland says with a chuckle that’s directed straight into his tea. It seems they’re slowly working their way towards the heart of the matter. One more half hour of awkwardly dancing around each other verbally might be all they need. "We’re erm, together, so it’s a just a bit…off-putting to see you and him, you know…"

Scotland makes a hand motion that could really mean much of anything from ‘seeming like such good friends’ to ‘going paragliding’ and anything that could fall between the two categories. Plus his face begins to heat up, bright enough this time that Ireland suspects it might speed up the threat of global warming, or at least allow him to cook eggs on his brother's skin if he gets a little peckish.

He falls to silence again as Ireland seems not to be listening to this at all.

"Oh," Ireland says, rather dimly, eyes widening slowly at first, then snapping open and face breaking out in a faint flush that almost grows to match the one on his Other-Brother's face. "OH," he repeats, letting his eyes stray as far away from Scotland as possible (which is the other side of the kitchen, and he pretends to be incredibly interested in a small crack that‘s starting to form on the wall).

"We’re not…I mean," Ireland blubbers out, not sure what he was actually doing upstairs himself. "I wasn’t doing _that_." He mimics the hand motion, if only because he’s sure Other-Scotland might know what the fuck it means and understand the concept better than Ireland merely saying the words, ‘I didn’t fuck him or anything, please don’t tell my brother what you saw.’

"Oh, right," Scotland says, sounding reassured. Ireland assumes it must be a relief to find out the man you’re standing in front of isn’t screwing your boyfriend, but in different dimensions or something. In the same way that it plucks the string of jealous annoyance that Other-Scotland also has a France, and that must be a universal constant or something.

Even though _his_ Scotland technically sees France less than Ireland does thanks to meetings, Scotland certainly gets to touch him more. Not that Ireland couldn’t. France shows the same level of interest towards most everyone at the bloody meetings, and seems like he’d gladly give him the time of day if Ireland only allowed it.

Which he doesn’t, because he’s not an entirely _bad_ brother.

He’s just not a very good one either, judging by his own behaviour today.

"Sorry for jumping to conclusions and all that, I guess," Other-Scotland adds after a while and Ireland feels like maybe they can close that book entirely and put it away, never look at it again and never, ever allow Scotland to find it and open it at the bookmark. Other-Scotland however moves onto looking plain old confused, and Ireland sees the next question coming before it even arrives. "So what _were_ you doing?"

"I was, uh," Ireland mumbles. There were many things he was doing, seducing France into almost shagging him and feeling tempted towards doing so also coming under the category of ’I need a therapist’.

Kissing, and thinking about popping the buttons on France's trousers falling firmly under ’terrible big brother’

And plenty more besides. He can’t really admit a word of it though. Refuses to. He draws himself up in preparation for the half-truth he’s about to tell, lets his fingers casually turn the mug where it sits on the counter and eyes Other-Scotland carefully. "I thought he’d take a bath if I gave him the idea," he admits, because it had been the gist of his plan. The fact it had backfired so massively hardly seems worth mentioning.

And not even Other-Scotland’s business besides.

Other-Scotland just lets out a soft laugh and raises an eyebrow, finding amusement in all of this that Ireland almost takes a bit of a dislike to because it suggests he _knows_. "I guess things really are different here," Other-Scotland says, helping Ireland relax and forget his ‘hit alternate-brother hard in the face’ idea. "I practically have to crowbar my France out of baths, he loves the damn things so much."

The very use of the words ‘France’ ‘bath’ and ‘crowbar’ in the same sentence causes a paranoid sounding laugh to lurch out of Ireland and he can only mask it with a smile to avoid looking as guilty as he feels.

"I’m assuming you and France are –" He’d wanted to make it sound like an innocent question – ‘Are you and Other-France happy together? OH THAT’S NICE’ – but the words stick and sound suspicious and prying like they always do when he attempts to take an interest.

Except his nosiness with Germany and North Italy had some tactical reasoning to it.

Other-Scotland does look a little suspicious about the trailing excuse for a question, and Ireland feels his filthy guilt return, heavy on his shoulders and starting to drain him entirely of his colour.

"Are what?" Other-Scotland asks, his sidelong glance cutting into Ireland deeper than he might have expected, as though trying to unmask his exact nuance and meaning behind the question.

Ireland cannot allow Other-Scotland to see too deeply into him and ignores the feeling of imminent heart attack and his worries that if he did die that Northern Ireland might somehow take over his position, which would be pretty awful. The air seems to thicken as he breathes it in to start talking.

"You just sound terribly close. I’ve never known our France to go anywhere with –" Ireland's mouth shuts instinctively. Thinking of his brother and France's relationship serves only to upset him more. His own treachery on the matter doesn't help to improve his feelings, and the thought that Scotland will just keep putting up with that shit for the rest of eternity without complaint causes a painful ache to form in Ireland's jaw. "He did go out in bad weather with me once, never heard a man complain like it."

The memory of that day brings a smile back onto his face: a night in the middle of Berlin for one of Germany's tedious lectures disguised as an economic run-down, in which Ireland had been personally ground into the dirt over something he’d done which seems insignificant now. But France had been walking back with him to the hotel when the rain started, and his bids to cheer Ireland up had turned to idle whimpering about how cold he was and Ireland had felt compelled to hand over his coat and get drenched because Ireland could at least handle a little bit of cold wet weather. France always seems physically incapable of doing so.

He feels himself crack a fond smile and hates himself instantly for it.

"Jesus, you haven’t heard complaining until you’ve been on a hike with him," Other-Scotland says, breaking into a massively fond smile of his own that Ireland can’t help staring at. He’s not known Scotland to smile fondly at anyone but Northern Ireland these days, and even those are always watery affairs with a massive amount of reservation applied. This smile, though it looks ridiculous on Scotland’s face, breaks through Ireland's feelings of self loathing and pushes a button of brotherly sentimentality. "And, aye, we are close. He’s my…" There’s a slight pause, as Other-Scotland's mind seems to become wrapped up in finding just the right word. "Partner… Boyfriend… We’re going out."

"That sounds nice," Ireland says slowly, his sentimental smile starting to waver at its edges. There’s a part of him that wishes his own Scotland had such luck, because he loves the expression he’s seeing on that face, but, there again, his heart twists with mournful jealously over it ever happening.

He’s finding loyalty a desperately hard thing to keep a hold of, and he disguises his drop in emotion by finishing off his tea. He needs to remember what he opted to live by before. Bros before hoes is the term he believes they use these days, and he decides that he’d quite like for Scotland to have France to himself.

Poor bastard deserves it, though it’d chew Ireland up inside. He’d get over it and find somebody else and move on. He’s not even sure Scotland has that fucking capacity.

"All the more reason to get you home, I’d say," Ireland says, stretching his slender arms into the air and feeling his back give a loud slightly painful crack from all the tension he’s been storing up.

Other-Scotland seems to mimic the straightening up and looks galvanised and fortified and a little more determined by the very mention of home. Ireland doesn’t blame him. Sounds like a fairly nice place to be.

He rather misses Dublin.

"And no doubt your brother will be just as glad to get back here," Other-Scotland says, though Ireland can’t imagine it being the truth, "France is probably making him eat birdseed as we speak. He won’t be able to get away fast enough."

His tone suggests that perhaps Scotland _had_ _better_ want to get away fast enough, otherwise he may be coming home missing a couple of teeth.

"Considering the fact he’s got family staying, I wouldn’t bet on –"

Ireland is interrupted by the high pitched beeping of his mobile phone, and he goes for it immediately. His eyebrows raise as he reads the message he’s just received.

[Northern Ireland (RUNT.): HEY WANKER, IGGY WANTS TO KNOW IF UR THERE YET. WE’RE GONNA BE SOON. TELL SCOTLAND IF U R, HIS FUCKING PHONE IS OFF AS USUAL. t(O_Ot).]

Ireland feels his eyebrows dip low on his face, though he reads the message over once more and forces himself to relax. North’s lack of respect aside, he supposes he should be glad of having England and Wales about; they might be of some help.

"And speaking of family," Ireland says, grinning to Scotland and feeling very much better for having all the awkwardness put behind them, at least. "I think ours are on their way."

 

 

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 1:20pm**

“I think the soup might still be warm,” France says, with narrowed eyes and a face that reeks of him losing his patience as everyone finally manages to get around to entering the dining room, though Scotland only hears that tone from his place near the door as he allows everyone to bustle past. He only dares looking into the room after everyone else has already begun to sit down.

He sees Other-England make a very pointed effort to sit beside Iceland. Scotland has no idea why Iceland would even be here, let alone why England would desire to sit next to the lad. It’s all pointing towards this Romano and Iceland standing in for America and Canada.

Romano is a pretty shit replacement for Canada, Scotland will be honest.

“Sorry, _Ffrainc_ ,” Other-Wales says, with the same apologetic tone which Scotland has sometimes hit his own Wales over during their history, because his Wales always has this pathetic watery drone that gets on his nerves. This Wales at least has a firmer voice when dealing with things meaning this Other-Wales is likely not quite as big a waste of fucking space. “We just got caught up in conversation and lost track of time,” he adds as he moves to sit beside England.

Another familiar little movement that catches halfway between annoying Scotland and helping him settle a little bit more. His own Wales and England tend to always sit beside each other unless England decides he’d rather find more stimulating company.

Such as America, or in this case, Iceland, who Scotland is now sure must be acting as some alternative. Perhaps the English took a shortcut to reaching the Americas and hit Iceland along the way instead.

Must have been an interesting battle for independence.

Scotland realises too late that’s he’s not only jumping to conclusions, but that he’s also lingering around the door like a dog who hasn’t been given permission to enter the room and nibble scraps off the floor. Reluctantly he steps inside, and is hit a little harder by the fact that the scene is very much like one he’d have at home.

Although slightly more serene, perhaps, because Other-Northern Ireland seems to be incapable of showing any enthusiasm (not even for food, which is an alien concept that Scotland cannot fathom). England isn’t even chiding this Northern Ireland for his sour face or his taste in clothing, ‘and would you sit down, North, and keep your elbows off the table, please.’

He’s so engrossed by this thought that he almost misses the way France smiles at him, nodding towards the seat beside him, which motivates Other-Northern Ireland – who Scotland can’t quite believe is so tall and skinny; like a little bird balanced on the edge of a thin twig – to literally drop his weight onto the next chair on down and then to cast his own England a nasty looking scowl which doesn’t shift the smug look on Other-England’s face a single iota.

In fact, Scotland almost swears he looks about one iota smugger upon seeing that face.

He almost has a mind to tell both of them to wise up, but he refrains. England might look the same, but this isn’t his North even in the barest terms. He’s Other-Scotland’s kid, and frankly Scotland’s not comfortable with mishandling another man's child.

Other-Northern Ireland would likely just ignore him anyway, considering he knows the bloody truth.

He once again gets peeled away from his musing by the way everyone’s eyes start to linger on him. He’s feeling more and more like the elephant in the room. What’s worse is that he feels suddenly like he’s in his old, massive, clumsy body again, that everyone can see that he doesn’t fit in.

He feels, really, very intrusive but he slinks over to his prescribed seat and eases himself into it. Taking a moment to eye the table again, at the way Other-Northern Ireland literally glares at his soup, leads Scotland to believe that yes, this Northern Ireland really just hates food. It explains why he’s such a skinny creature at any rate. He gets to see Romano, also scowling. That’s neither unusual nor worth asking about. Scotland’s never actually seen their Romano so much as attempt to crack a smile, and the fact he’s not already driven his fist into Other-Wales’ face and stormed out of the room means he might actually be a little more easy going, though not by much. Other-Wales gets to work ignoring Other-Romano's muttering while England differs from looking smug to thinking about eating a spoonful of the meal set out for him, looking suspicious and deeply put out by it.

Scotland still hates that smug face when it makes a hint of reappearing. What is England even so smug about anyway?

Next peek towards Other-Iceland – henceforth known to Scotland as Iceland, as he’s not even sure he’s ever talked to the one from his own alternate world or whatever – who looks a little awkward about being anywhere near England, and keeps casting small apologetic looks towards Other-Northern Ireland, who never looks any happier about receiving them. Perhaps he disapproves of this apparent romance of Other-England’s as much as Scotland himself is beginning to.

His eyes finally skirt towards France, who seems programmed to notice the little look and instantly chances a hopeful smile that Scotland can’t help returning despite his growing sense of non-belonging.

“Sorry,” Scotland says impulsively, because he really can’t think of much else to say before he opts towards the act of frowning at his bowl the way everyone else appears to have done before him, though they all seem eager to start eating it now that everyone’s settled.

France's smile slides off his face, before his hand eases itself onto Scotland’s knee and gives it a tender squeeze. He allows himself a slightly more reserved expression as something visibly seems to come to him, and the cheerfulness returns to France's face, making him look painfully glorious. “Your bread turned out beautifully, _mon amour_ ,” France says, his fingers starting to slowly slide their way up Scotland’s inseam. “As I keep telling you, you have a wonderful technique.”

Scotland is just about ready to excuse them both and to act as he might with his own France. But it isn’t his own France, he forcefully reminds himself, and his loyalty sets itself firmly with Other-Scotland and the France he knows he has feelings for somewhere beyond the rift. He makes a point to remove Other-France's hand and place it back onto his own knee where it can do no further damage. Then Scotland merely smiles disjointedly, nodding along with the compliment as he tries to look casual.

“Thank you,” he says, patting Other-France's hand; a small show of affection to try and ease the look of deflated confusion on the other nation’s handsome face before Scotland moves it away entirely. “Your soup smells wonderful,” he adds, hoping the little compliment might bolster Other-France's mood a little like it would his own, yet the blond offers only a look of concern.

Scotland faintly hears the chatter of conversation; Romano complaining about something that is likely irrelevant and unimportant.

“Scotland, I…” France says, voice low and worried sounding enough that it hurts Scotland to hear it. He wants to hug the man and make some sort of apology, yet can’t find the courage to do so while everyone is present.

France eases his hand out towards Scotland’s arm, pausing a mere inch or two away before it drifts back to his side, voice falling despondently to a hurt whisper. “ _Mon coeur_ , please,” he mumbles out, his words like bullets to Scotland’s ability to cope, “tell me what’s wrong. I thought talking with your brothers might help, but you still don’t seem like your usual self, and -"

"That’s because he isn’t,” England remarks quickly causing Scotland to wonder – with annoyance – why he’s been listening in at all. He makes no apology for it either, the rotten little sod; he merely pops another spoonful of soup into his mouth.

It spurs Other-Wales into raising his arse off the chair and sweeping his hand out towards Other-England’s face. Scotland hopes it might be to hit him like his own Wales might do when England is being particularly annoying, but the motion looks abortive at most.

“Jesus, _Lloegr_ ,” he sees Other-Wales hiss towards his brother before looking up to him, and offering a limp, useless shrug that makes Scotland kind of want to hit him.

Other-England does it for him though, by smacking his hand aside in that timeless, offended looking way which always makes Scotland think that England has no idea about the concept of his actions possibly having consequences.

He sees France look between the two brothers, before his eyes swish up to meet Scotland’s, brows furrowed.

“What?” France asks, the word snapping from him like a whip, serving to make Scotland’s mind free itself from thoughts of banging Other-England and Other-Wales’ heads together like executive desk toys.

His thoughts that Other-Wales is still inherently less annoying than his own, and that all England’s are conniving little pricks, are all lost to him as he stares vacantly into France's eyes, like a rabbit caught in high beams. His hand raises itself instinctively to try and offer some comfort, yet falls uselessly back to his lap when he realises that touching France is still off limits. It soon starts to clench tight into a fist, however, because now everyone has their eyes trained on him. Except Romano, thank God, otherwise Scotland might have a victim picked out.

“I’m not sure what to say,” he admits finally,

“The thing is, _Ffrainc_ –” Other-Wales says, his voice drifting and insightful in an attempt to explain things rationally and to clear the whole mess up lest anything else go the fuck wrong. At least, that’s what Scotland gathers from that supportive and sympathetic little look on his face.

Other-Wales never gets a chance to say anything more.

“It isn’t our Scotland inside that body. He’s from another dimension, and I presume our Scotland’s currently stuck in his,” England says, adding salt to the wound by very casually buttering a slice of bread and fixing his eyes on France's face, his mouth twisting into an ugly little smirk that Scotland recognises as malicious and far too amused. He's hoping, no doubt, to cause France to have some kind of meltdown and ensure that Scotland gets a beating from somebody. Possibly Iceland.

Scotland glares at England, deciding that what he’ll do as soon as he gets a chance is to get a hold of whatever is left of that bread he worked so hard on and jam it so far into Other-England’s throat as to sufficiently suffocate him.

No time for that now however as France's eyes swing back and forth, not fathoming exactly what’s going on from what Scotland sees of it, and those blue eyes rest on his again, causing Scotland to look to his soup with a helping of shame to go with it. France will never believe a word of it, but he can’t exactly l _ie_ about it either.

“Aye,” he says, drumming his fingers on his lap to cease their restlessness, “that’s basically the bare bones of it. As insane as it sounds.” He then clears his throat to try and dislodge the lump that’s formed there. It only makes it bigger and turns the meek little, “sorry,” he manages to wheeze out fades to nothing.

France remains silent for a while and Scotland imagines that what’s happening now is that France believes Other-Scotland to have gone completely mad and that he’s no doubt got his little brothers believing this nonsense as well. He’s effectively ruined the bloke's credibility and he’ll have to live with the guilt for as long as he lives, which could be a fucking eternity.

That is assuming he ever gets home.

Scotland feels his chest start to heave slightly, his mind to race and skin to break into a cold sweat as various members of the table look to each other curiously, perhaps making a judgement on Other-Scotland's character.

“This again?” France says suddenly, hauling the carpet right out from under Scotland’s panicking feet and slamming him much too hard into a relaxed state. One that renders him semi paralysed. “What have you done now, _Nord_?” France asks, his rueful expression focusing on Northern Ireland, who until this point had no interest in the conversation at all.

The teenager looks to Scotland, then leans forward slightly in self defence. “Nothing! Why does everyone keep blaming me?” he barks

He’s quickly followed by a helpful sounding, “Norway didn’t do this. At least I don’t think he did…” from Iceland. He smiles sympathetically at Northern Ireland, who slumps back into his seat, looking more angry at the world than ever. Scotland empathises completely.

“Is this going to happen every fucking month now?” Romano pipes in, barely looking up from his soup and getting back to work eating it as soon as he’s added some grumble about how fucking weird everything is around here and how much he fucking hates it.

Scotland misses most of the conversation that follows, because he’s too busy losing his colour and feeling dazed. His eyes fall instinctively towards Other-Wales, a shining beacon of stability in this otherwise chaotic world; though his words are directed towards France, he can’t bear to look at him at the moment.

“You mean you…” he starts off, rendering the bustle of talk to a bit a standstill.

“We what?” Other-Wales asks, though he looks puzzled, perhaps by the sheer fact the question ended so abruptly. His face twists into a familiar little look of concern as he takes in the pale skin and sinking of his brother's entire frame. He leans forward, looking ready to leave the room entirely to fetch water, or gin or superglue lest Scotland collapse like he think he might, destroying furniture with his fat borrowed head. “Are you okay, _Yr Alban_?”

The concern helps snap Scotland out of it, to dismiss Wales as he normally does and to focus on France again with some renewed zeal.

“You would have believed me if I’d told you this entire time?” he asks, sinking a little deeper into his seat and pressing his fingers into his temple to try and find his centre. To process the information that his entire day of snooping, acting, stressing and worrying endlessly over Other-Scotland and the damage he might possibly do to the poor sod if Scotland messed up even once! It all could have been fucking averted by him just admitting the problem? “Jesus fucking Christ,” he hisses in self annoyance. His whole day feels wasted, and he’s made himself look stupid. Bloody marvellous.

“Well, yes,” France says, sounding like it should be pretty obvious, though his expression twists with soft running realisation that slowly warms up his whole face as it focuses once again on Scotland’s sunken form. “Not that you’d have known that, of course.”

“Oh,” is all Scotland can really say, feeling his breathing settle back into the rhythm where it belongs, wondering how this sort of thing can happen often enough for it to be no big deal. His own family stopped the body swapping and general pissing about several years ago, and only England and Ireland seem content to carry on. The last curse Scotland remembers being one England had set upon both of them, rendering Ireland incapable of speaking for as long as England didn’t. A quiet week for all from what Scotland remembers, even if Ireland had responded by making England incapable of writing anything with his right hand, while Ireland had got along fine with his left, because he’s always been ambidextrous.

Even they might be a bit more fucking stumped by this whole mess than he thinks this lot are. Especially France, though Scotland reminds himself that Other-Scotland at least won’t have that concern. “Our France would have thought I’d lost my fucking mind,” he grits out under his breath.

“This is a bit more serious than then, though,” Other-Wales chimes in, wiping the amused expression from France's face, and Other-Wales looks like he feels a bout of utter foolishness once again overtake him as his face suggested it had while they talked earlier. “A spell powerful enough to cross dimensions,” he says, cheeks reddening slightly, fingers weaving together as if to contain his mild embarrassment over using the term in his palms and not release it, “isn’t likely to wear off overnight like that one did. We’re going to have to try and break it ourselves, otherwise there’s no telling how long our _Yr Alban_ ’s going to be gone."

Now France's amused expression is gone entirely, and he's looking incredibly worried in its stead. Scotland attempts to ease himself up in his chair as the wind starts to fill his sails slightly. He’s wasted half a day, but now real steps can be taken to get him home.

Not that he misses his brothers, mind. He misses his body and his tables and nothing more.

“But you tried that last time, and nothing happened, why would it be any different now?” France asks, causing a rabble of mixed reactions, mild amusement from Romano’s end, to a pained look of nostalgia from the set of brothers, slowly spilling into mild horror from England. If Scotland knows him like he thinks he might, then it’s caused by the very notion that their magic just isn’t up to snuff.

Not that Scotland can say his family have ever had more luck getting back into their own bodies beyond beating up whoever caused it and making them release the curse, or letting it wear off naturally if it’s been some magical misstep as it once was for England that one time when he’d managed to accidentally become female, rendering himself barely able to take his clothes off or wash for about two weeks because he couldn’t undo his own spell once it had been set in action.

The pigtails had been a nice touch, though.

Other-England opens his mouth to make what looks like a very loud protest on the matter, but Other-Wales doesn’t allow him the chance, carries on by motioning to Scotland with a soft sweep of his hand and nodding. “Well for a start, _Yr Alban_ here has a few suggestions about some new techniques we could try.”

Now France looks to Scotland, raising an expectant eyebrow that suggests he’ll beat the ever loving shit out of Scotland if his suggestions sound too stupid. But he may be reading far too much into it, because Other-France seems rather fond of Other-Scotland, and likely doesn’t want to damage him too much. Still, Scotland has some trepidations about it.

“My family,” he says, earning a small roll of the eyes from Other-England, because he apparently has some doubts about Other-British Isles’ talents on the matter, but Scotland ignores it in hopes of being reassuring. “We’ve always solved tricky curses with cleansing circles and salt,” he says nodding towards Other-Wales, so they can share the blame should France actually decide to start gouging out eyes. “Salt is a, well it makes magic a bit more potent and if we work together like Wales suggested.” He runs the idea over once more, to see if it sounds like something his own England or Ireland might sound off, only with more confidence. He decides it sounds about right and hesitantly smiles to France, in a last bid to cheer him up. “And you’ll have your Scotland back before the night is over.”


	9. Chapter 9

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 9:15 am**

  
  
"At least they can give us a hand with the magic," Ireland says, setting out three extra mugs on the counter. His words are soft and distracted-sounding, barely audible above the bubble and hiss of the kettle as it comes to the boil again. "Much easier with them around as not."  
  
The addition of tea bags and varying amounts of sugar to each one afterwards seems to demand his full attention and his words fade away entirely for the duration, but once they're appointed to his satisfaction, he glances towards Scotland and asks, "I don't suppose you want another brew?"  
                
"Never say no," Scotland says automatically, placing his mug next to the others. His fingers feel restless as soon as it leaves his hand, however, so he grabs the first thing he sees to replace it. "So... How long did you say it'll be until they get here again?"  
               
"From what North wrote, they could be between five minutes and an hour away." Ireland's eyebrows dip a little when he reaches for the teaspoon he'd been using earlier and finds it missing, but he simply digs another one out of the jumble of cutlery lurking amongst the pans in the sink. He quickly rinses it, thrusts it into the sugar, and then pauses, eyes drifting back to Scotland again. "You do take your tea the same as my brother, don't you? I never even thought to ask."  
  
"I couldn't really taste it under the whiskey," Scotland says, feeling a little guilty for failing to appreciate Ireland's tea-making skills properly. "I take two sugars and a quite a bit of milk." He holds the thumb and forefinger of his free hand a few centimetres apart to demonstrate, realising as he does so that it's a completely shite visual as far as milk volume is concerned. "I like it pretty beige," he clarifies.  
  
As he watches Ireland get back to work on the tea, the jittery feeling spreads out from Scotland's hand, sending useless impulses to his muscles that make them twitch impatiently with the need to do _something_ , even though his mind knows there's nothing else he _can_ do  
  
He's not nervous, exactly. A mite concerned, he'll grudgingly allow, but who wouldn't be, with their chances of seeing their home again any time soon resting on the shoulders of two blokes they've never met, but who have a high probability of being ineffectual and uncooperative respectively?  
  
Or alternatively – as is the way, Scotland's been given to understand, with alternate universes – Other-Wales and England could be people he doesn't recognise at all.  
  
The thought compels him to ask Ireland, "Is there anything you think I should know about your brothers before they get here? Like, 'You shouldn't make eye contact with Wales or he's liable to claw your face off''? That sort of thing?"  
             
"Well, for one thing, England is an insufferable arse. Ignore him,' Ireland says almost immediately, handing Scotland his tea. He appears to mull the question over again as he takes a first sip of his own, and then adds, "And Northern Ireland is...He doesn't have any magic, refuses to believe a word of it. You can scare the shit out of him if you like; he's an annoying little bastard."  
            
"And Wales?" Scotland prompts, when the silence on Ireland's end grows long enough that he starts to wonder if the other nation has lost his train of thought.  
           
Ireland's mouth bows into a small, almost fond sort of smile. "Wales is alright. He'll not do you any harm. Very gentle."  
  
Scotland mentally translates gentle to 'far too soft, and liable to tear up over things like sunsets, baskets of kittens, doomed romances and the like', and therefore quite likely to be very similar to his own Wales. In fact, all of Ireland's descriptions sound familiar enough to be reassuring, if only because he already knows how to deal with his own brothers - so these other-brothers shouldn't prove too much of a problem - and a Wales that'd claw your face off if you looked at him funny would be a pain in the arse to deal with.  
  
Ireland's smile is short-lived, however, quickly giving way to an irritated-looking twist of thinned lips and frown whose origin puzzles Scotland until one of Ireland's hands whips out to cover his own, and he realises with a hot surge of embarrassment that he's been drumming the teaspoon he picked up against the countertop, and probably has been doing so for quite some time.  
  
He reluctantly eases his gaze back up to Ireland's face, and it's a relief to see that his expression is purely irritated, suggesting that his own Scotland doesn't share this particular and damning bad habit. Because Scotland _isn't_ nervous – slightly apprehensive at best – whatever his hand sees fit to say on the matter without his permission.  
  
Ireland's long, bony fingers tighten slightly and his grip is deceptively strong; Scotland doubts he'd have been able to keep tapping even if he'd wanted to. "Can you do me a favour and pull some biscuits from the larder while I finish making this?" he asks.  
  
Scotland suspects that it's a ploy to put a little distance between him and Ireland's desire to punch him in the face for being so annoying (which even Wales has done once or twice – on occasions when he was particularly short of temper and Scotland was particularly bored – as Scotland's subconscious has no sense of rhythm and it offends Wales' musician's soul or some such), and as such he complies, having no desire to antagonise someone who could probably just as easily ensure he ends up inhabiting a dog next instead of returning to his own body.  
  
"No problem," he says, easing his hand from beneath Ireland's.  
  
A quick poke around in the larder reveals a tin bearing an impressive array of biscuits suitable for dunking, and Scotland grabs a packet each of chocolate Digestives, Rich Teas, and ginger biscuits, because, lacking any specific instructions, it's what he'd choose for his own brothers. By the time he emerges, Ireland is smiling again, though it does falter a little when his eyes wander over the packets, suggesting that Scotland may have made an error in judgement regarding his selection.  
  
Ireland's lips begin to part, but whatever biscuit-related wisdom he was about to share is interrupted by a sharp knock at the door. "That'll be England," he says instead. "He knocks instead of ringing the doorbell in hopes we won't hear him and can make an excuse to leave.'  
        
"Suppose I'd better him in, then." Scotland tries to straighten up in preparation, to stand tall and look impervious, but his shoulders insist on rounding, no doubt making him look a little anxious – which he's _not_ , moderately wary at worst – as Other-Scotland's default position for them appears to be several inches higher.  
       
Ireland seems to easily read the tiny hint of mild uneasiness telegraphed by Scotland's traitorous shoulders, however. "Would you like some moral support?" he asks, straightening himself up far more competently than Scotland had managed, and then easing out the creases from the front of his T-shirt with the flat of one hand.  
      
It's on the tip of Scotland's tongue to refuse, to say, 'It's only fucking _England_ '. Both remain firmly caught there when Scotland opens his mouth, however, overtaken by the, "Thanks, wouldn't mind it, mate," that barrels out straight over them.  
  
Which would be fucking humiliating if that were his England or this was his Ireland, but as it's neither and thus extremely unlikely to come back and bite him on the arse at a later date, he can just smile gratefully for the support, take a deep breath, and move on.  
  
He catches England mid-sentence when he throws open the front door, head turned back towards some unfortunate still concealed by the garden hedge who's apparently earned his ire because they'd: 'whimpered and whined the entire way here, and now you dilly dally about!'  
  
Scolding thus administered to his satisfaction, England turns to glare at Scotland. He looks a little disgruntled – his brows lowered and eyes glinting irritably – but, more strikingly, like a sodding clone of Scotland's own brother. The same face, same posture, same scowl, same _everything_.  
  
"There you are, Scotland. I thought you might not be in," England says, in the exact same tone of voice his England would use on Scotland's own doorstep when trying to be polite, but secretly disappointed not to find the house empty as he'd doubtless hoped.  
  
The resemblance is... eerie, really. How can Scotland look like he does, and Ireland look like he does, and yet England be completely unchanged? Perhaps the universal constant of Englandness is actually _England_ , just replicated over and over and over again over countless different universes.  
  
Scotland has to repress a shudder, because it's a horrible thought.  
  
He gradually realises then that he's been staring for quite a long while, and forces himself to say something – anything – to break his inertia. "We were just making tea," is not exactly his scintillating best, but it's the only thing that comes readily to mind.  
   
"Wonderful," England says briskly, "that's exactly what I could use after being locked in a car with those two insufferable creatures." He peers over his shoulder again, and then holds his hand to his mouth to call, "Would you hurry up! How long can it take to get a few bags out of a car?"  
  
He then strides into the hall before Scotland has chance to invite him to do so, carelessly dropping his battered, Union Jack emblazoned bag to the floor before starting to yank off his coat and gloves.  
  
Scotland can no more check his snort of annoyance than his instinctive:  "Why don't you come right on in, make yourself at home."  
  
England's answers with an equally sarcastic, "I will, thank you," before turning to his brother, and offering him a small nod and a sharp and caustic-sounding, "Ireland."  
  
Ireland grins broadly in response, looking strangely cheerful about greeting someone he'd referred to as an 'insufferable arse' only minutes before. "England."  
  
England seems to lose interest in both Scotland and Ireland then, instead focusing all of his attention on casting a judgemental eye around Other-Scotland's hallway. Whatever he sees seems to displease him, judging by the sneer that slowly twists his upper lip awry. "I see you've taken down all your Christmas decorations, Scotland," he says in a derisive tone after finishing his inspection. "Assuming you ever put any up to begin with."  
  
Scotland had presumed that Other-Scotland hadn't decorated for much the same reason that he hadn't himself – it seemed like a waste of time and money when he'd be spending the Christmas holidays at England's anyway – but the same presumption on England's part seems like a slight against Other-Scotland's character, somehow. The spirited defence he decides to make, citing Other-Scotland's imaginary yet abundant decorations and their sad demise in an equally imaginary accident this very morning, is interrupted by Ireland before he has chance to even begin mounting it, however.  
  
"England," he says, "we have to talk about something. It's kind of important."  
  
"I'm sure whatever it is you've done can wait," England says dismissively. "I remember when we used to leave our decorations up till February," he continues, as though unable to conceive of anything in the world more important than the lack of sodding tinsel and baubles in his line of sight. "Much more festive, don't you think?"  
  
Ireland raises one eyebrow. "That was in the nineteenth century, England."  
          
"It really can't wait, England," Scotland says through gritted teeth. Less than five minutes in Other-England's presence, and already Scotland's half-tempted to smack him in the hope it'll make him stop and bloody listen to someone other than himself for a moment. Suddenly, it feels very much like home here.  
         
"I'd much rather hear about it over a cup of tea, thank you," England says, bundling his coat into Ireland's arms.  
         
Ireland immediately drops the coat on top of England's bag. "Don't be so stubborn," he says, but the words fall unheeded and unacknowledged upon England's back as he turns and marches into the kitchen. Ireland gives a frustrated-sounding groan. "I swear to all that's holy..."  
         
Scotland steps forward, ready to storm straight on after England and drag him back out by the scruff of his neck if needs be, but a loud and joyful shout of, "Scotland!" draws his attention back to front door again, just in time to see an equally cheerful looking boy bouncing energetically up onto the doorstep, his open coat flapping like wings behind him.  
  
The boy huffs out a little breath that mists up in the cold air as he settles, then continues with, "I'm _so_ happy to see you!" His slightly crooked smile is so wide that it pinches little dimples into his cheeks. "You have no idea what I've been through. England was dragging his feet the entire way."  
  
England's voice echoes briefly from the kitchen. "We took the scenic route!"  
         
The boy scowls, an expression which teases a hitherto indiscernible yet uncanny resemblance to England out of his softer features. "Scenic route, my arse," he mutters under his breath.  
   
Scotland, for his part, can only stare again, but this time transfixed by the glaring divergence from his own world rather than any unsettling confluence. Because the boy can't be anyone other than Northern Ireland – the accent and unfortunate facial arrangement would have given him away even if Scotland hadn't been able to detect faint traces of the same aura he'd encountered at the garage earlier trailing from him – but he's so dissimilar to Scotland's own North that it's difficult to believe they're the same nation.  
  
From his height (severely lacking), build (sturdy or round everywhere Scotland's North is spindly or angular), even down to his demeanour (animated, as opposed to so mopey and lethargic that Scotland had begun to think that showing interest in anything at all was unfashionable or something), it's difficult to find even a single point of commonality. Their hair is, perhaps, almost the same shade of auburn, but this Northern Ireland's is still curly and flyaway as opposed to straight and unfairly well behaved.  
  
"North..." he rouses himself to say when the shock eventually starts wearing off, before realising that perhaps the nickname might be one that Other-Scotland never uses. He quickly but clumsily expands it to, "Northern Ireland."  
  
Name fumblingly delivered, Scotland's left unsure of how to proceed. The bright smile and general enthusiasm suggest that this Northern is fairly glad to see Other-Scotland, but that doesn't give him much to go on. Is Other-Scotland merely an improvement over Other-England's company, and marginally so, at that? Is he simply an oasis in an otherwise unbroken landscape of nagging, complaining and general arseyness?  
  
Are they hugging close, or don't actively hate each other close?  
  
Other-Northern Ireland's upturned freckled face holds no clues – for all that it seems happy and open – and neither does his body, which stays unhelpfully immobile instead of moving inside the house (no physical contact wanted or required), or extending a hand (handshake requested; a little odd but workable) or arms (hug assumed; awkward but not insurmountable).    
  
Scotland is, it appears, very bad at being Other-Scotland, and it makes him thankful that he's not really had much reason to try before now.  
  
Lacking any better ideas, Scotland chooses to do what he usually does upon greeting his own North, because it shows a little affection without having to get too close physically, which both of them appreciate, and it irritates North, which Scotland thinks is one of the essential duties of a big brother.  
       
Northern Ireland's eyes widen in surprise, however, and he tenses up beneath Scotland's hand, body stiffening as though Scotland had just hit him instead of tousled his hair. "What was that for?" he asks a little querulously.  
  
Other-Scotland is clearly not a hair ruffler.  
  
Scotland's hastily constructed excuse to explain away his obvious miscalculation ('I spotted a bug'; unconvincing, perhaps, but still within the realms of possibility) is cut short by a soft, drained-sounding voice which draws his eyes past Northern Ireland towards the nation slowly shuffling, stoop backed towards the house behind him.  
  
"North, you should get in out of the cold."  
  
It's difficult to tell at first glance exactly how much Other-Wales might resemble Scotland's own, as his dishevelled shoulder length hair and downcast eyes both conspire to obscure most of his face. The hair _is_ the same colour as Wales' and he seems to be around the same height, though it's impossible to tell any more until Other-Wales finally manages to haul his seemingly leaden feet all the way to the step to stand alongside Other-Northern Ireland.  
  
He looks up then, but only briefly, a small smile playing tentatively on his lips. It’s just enough time for Scotland to notice that his skin is pale almost to the point of transparency, and that although his eyes are brown not green, and his other features don't map exactly – and perhaps it's the just the quite similar magical signature talking – there does seem to be an essential sort of Walesness about Other-Wales that transcends any slight differences in appearance to Scotland's brother, which…  
  
Which is a relief, to be honest, because Wales is, if nothing else, a comfortable sort of person to be around. So long as you avoid one or two sore spots (taking the piss out of his rugby team, however badly they might be doing, suggesting that the Welsh language must have been struck down by some terrible vowel-eating disease in its infancy, and so on) unless you're actually spoiling for a fight, he's an easier person to deal with than most of the rest of their family, and judging by Ireland's description of him before, Other-Wales is of a similarly non-confrontational disposition, too.  
       
"It's good to see you again, big brother," Wales says to his scuffed shoes, holding out a bottle of quite nice looking brandy. "I hope we didn't keep you waiting."  
   
Scotland accepts the brandy with a sincere, "Thank you," and then steps back to allow Wales plenty of room to enter the house. "And, naw, it's fine. It gave me and Ireland time to do a bit of… catching up. You've timed it perfectly, actually. We've just made tea."  
   
Wales bobs his head towards Northern Ireland in a gesture that is clearly meant to push him to get inside, before doing so himself. He sets his bag down beside England's, and then says, "Tea sounds good right about now. I'm feeling a little bit funny.'  
  
"Jesus, you do look under the weather," Ireland says, suddenly appearing at Wales' shoulder. "Best get some tea in you before England drinks it all." He gets to work encouraging Wales to start moving, but still takes a moment to tilt his head and frown at Northern Ireland in passing. "You can take the bags upstairs first, Runt."  
   
"Whatever; I want tea too," Northern Ireland says, sounding haughty, even though he hangs back to stand next to Scotland rather than making any move towards the kitchen. "And don't call me that, arsehole."  
  
"What's up with Wales, then?" Scotland asks Northern Ireland as he watches his other-brother's stumbling progress, Ireland's hand hovering near his back as though expecting Wales' legs to give out at any moment and thus readying himself to catch him. "You guys must have had a bloody awful journey by the looks of it."  
  
"Wales just took way too much of that stupid travel sickness medicine he uses when he's in the car because England was taking so long to get here," Northern Ireland says with a shrug which dislodges his coat from its precarious perch on his shoulders. He catches it before it can fall to the floor, and then ties it around his waist by the arms. "It was pretty bad, though. England said he got a funny feeling, and we ended up in North Berwick."  
  
Other-Wales needs travel sickness medicine? That's... different. Scotland's own Wales doesn't get travel sick, only homesick to such a degree that he once started whinged about his _hireath_ in fucking _Chester_. Granted, it may well have been exaggerated for effect because they were there bank holidaying it up with England, and had spent more than an hour looking at gravestones at the cathedral at his behest, but it had seemed excessive, regardless.  
  
"Must have been a fucking hilarious feeling to send him scurrying that far off track," Scotland says, because expressing surprise at Other-Wales' ailments wouldn't do him any favours in the 'Other-Scotland tribute act' competition, but he's fairly sure _anyone_ might be a little taken aback by a detour that extreme. "Any idea what's got up his nose, then?"  
           
Northern Ireland shrugs loosely again. "He really insisted France was about. But I told him to stick it up his arse, since you told me France wasn't coming and all," he says with an amused grin.  
  
Scotland forces a laugh that doesn't sound very convincing even to him. "France? Really? That's..." He trails off as he and Northern Ireland enter the kitchen, not knowing what to say that won't make Other-Scotland seem like an enormous liar. He looks around the room a little desperately, searching for some moral support, but sees none, as Ireland has his head stuck in the larder and thus oblivious to any silent pleas for support.  
  
He is the one that brought France along, however, so, Scotland decides, he should be the one to explain.  
  
It's strange to feel gratitude towards England for much of anything, but his scolding of Northern Ireland for dithering about and leaving his tea to go cold (a charge Northern Ireland strenuously denies, because, apparently, only old people dither) does at least divert Northern Ireland from any talk of France.  
  
Unfortunately, the distraction doesn't prove to be particularly enduring, and after Northern Ireland has sipped his tea and hauled himself up to sit on the countertop (which prompts a: "North, don't sit on the worktop! And don't do that with your coat, you'll ruin the sleeves!" from England, which Northern Ireland dismisses with a roll of his eyes), he simply continues their conversation as though they'd never been interrupted.  
  
"Yeah," he says, "you went on about it for fucking _years_ on the phone."  
   
"What's that?" Ireland chimes in as he resurfaces out of the larder, clutching a packet of Fig Rolls.  
           
"Apparently, England had a funny feeling that France was around about," Scotland tells him before turning on his heel with the intention of beating a hasty retreat towards the little corner table where England and Wales are sitting (looking as though they're taking tea with the Queen and about ready to keel over and die, respectively). It's a little cowardly, to be sure, but this isn't his family, and he has no idea how they're likely to react to an unexpected French incursion into what he presumes was meant to be a family-only event, and so it's probably best to leave the breaking of that news to someone more experienced in dealing with any unpleasant fallout that might occur.  
  
England's eyebrows rise at the mention of France, and his gaze darts between Ireland and Scotland suspiciously.  
       
"Oh, right," Ireland says, sounding distracted, his own eyes fixed on the top of Wales' bent head rather than Scotland or England. The Fig Rolls drift from one of his hands to the other and then back again. "Well, you know that 'something important' I was trying to tell you about before?"  
       
England's eyebrows sink again, and his expression turns dangerous. "Yes?"  
       
"Well, think of it as two very separate but related problems," Ireland begins.  
       
"Honestly, _Irlande_ ," France's voice purrs from the direction of the doorway in a display of such impeccable dramatic timing that Scotland wouldn't be surprised if he later discovered that the other-nation had been loitering in the hallway for a while, simply waiting for his cue to announce his presence with the maximum of impact. "If you class me as a problem I think I'll have to be offended."  
  
He's leaning nonchalantly against the doorframe, smug smile curling his lips, and toying with a lock of his still damp hair in such a familiar way that Scotland decides it's probably in his best interests to stop looking at him.  
       
His eyes stray rudderless around the kitchen for a moment before settling finally on England, who glares at him accusingly, and snaps, "What the fuck is he doing here?"  
  
Scotland is torn for a moment, but the instinct to protect Other-Scotland's honour as regards his potentially being a deceitful liar eventually wins. Regrettably, that does mean that he has to throw Ireland to the wolves a little, but he's sure his other-brother will be fully able to cope. "He just turned up with Ireland."  
      
"What are _you_ doing inviting _him_ here?" England growls, face darkening yet further as he turns the brunt of his anger on Ireland. "It was supposed to be the five of us!"  
  
"I don't even remember inviting him," Ireland insists. "He just came along of his own free will.'  
     
England's eyes narrow. "I should have known you'd do something like this."  
  
"Look, there's something a little more pressing we need to talk about than France!"  
  
"Is that thing that you're a backstabbing traitor?" Northern Ireland grumbles.  
     
Ireland sighs despondently. "No."  
     
"If I didn't know any better, I'd say none of you were pleased to see me," France says as he wanders over to Ireland's side and into the field of Scotland's vision again.  
  
"I thought you were going out with Argentina this year, you bastard frog," England says, sounding as though he believes that any such plans were merely a smokescreen, cunningly deployed to throw him off the scent as part of a master plan whose aim was to ultimately ruin his day.  
     
"I'm allowed to change my plans if it suits me,' France waves one hand dismissively, "and Ireland kindly offered to let me come along."  
  
"I'm going to demand a family meeting, in the dining room," Ireland breaks in, sounding exasperated. " _Now_ ," he adds in a very firm tone that seems to leave no room for disagreement.  
   
Scotland is already moving before Ireland finishes his sentence. He knows from experience that arguments involving his own family and France tend to be pointless and cyclical with a high chance of violence on England's part, and he's willing to extrapolate that it's likely to be just the same here, which will just delay matters pointlessly. Besides, for once in his life, he's very eager to get away from (a) France.  
  
"Ireland's right," he says. "You can all shout at France later if you like, but right now, you need to get moving." He makes shooing motions with his hands towards Wales and England. "Somewhere we can all talk. Privately."  
   
"Bring your tea and biscuits; I think you'll need them at the rate we're going," Ireland tells them with a wry smile.  
   
England folds his arms across his chest and scowls, looking bitter. "If you're trying to change the subject it's not going to work!'  
   
" _Lloegr_ , please don't be so awkward," Wales says, his tone faintly chiding, as he struggles to his feet.  
   
England looks as though he might argue further, but eventually just heaves an exaggerated sigh and complies, standing up from the table himself, tea in hand.  
  
 "What am I supposed to do while you go off to have your little meeting?" France says after a small pause which suggests he might have been rendered momentarily speechless.  
   
Ireland's eyebrows scrunch close as though in thought for a moment, and then he suggests, "Why don't you cook something for lunch? You're the most qualified chef here after all." He smiles charmingly as he raises his hand towards France's cheek.  
  
Scotland averts his eyes to avoid having to witness what he might do with that hand, and by the time he judges it safe to look up again, Ireland has moved away from France and Northern Ireland is sliding off the counter, obviously planning on accompanying his brothers.  
  
Ireland shakes his head. "Not you, short stuff. Adults only."  
   
"What?!" Northern Ireland snaps, glowering at his brother. "You _just_ said it was a family meeting!"  
   
Ireland leans towards Northern Ireland slightly, and says slowly, clearly and a touch irritably, "Adults. Only."  
   
"But… I'm an adult!" Northern Ireland's expression turns pleading as he looks towards Scotland. "Right, Scotland?"  
  
The pleading expression scores a glancing hit off his brain's guilt centres, but Scotland's willing to go along with Ireland on this; if he thinks Other-Northern Ireland shouldn't be present, then so be it. He offers Northern Ireland an apologetic half smile and reflexive hair ruffle in sympathy, but: "You're a few years off yet, lad. And Ireland's right; this isn't really a conversation for weans, you ken."  
  
"Ugh, fine," Northern Ireland says peevishly, patting at his hair as though trying to return it to some semblance of an order it hadn't even had before it was mussed.  
  
"You can give France a hand in here," Ireland says, sweeping his arm out in an expansive gesture which encompasses the entire kitchen.  
  
France's expression brightens slightly. "That's a marvellous idea, _Irlande_."  
  
England, however, looks horrified. 'Now see here, I really don't think –" he begins, but the rest of his words are swallowed up by a shocked gasp when Ireland shoves his shoulder.  
  
"Just get into the dining room," Ireland tells him. "You can complain later."

 

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 1:30 pm**

  
  
  
Other-England had scoffed afresh at his more detailed explanation of how to make magic more potent, and demanded a full and exact break down of what salt could even do and why it was so vital, and Scotland had been at a loss to sound as convincing as Ireland might have done if it had been _him_ here instead of the other way around.  
  
It had been during Scotland’s increasingly incoherent mumbling, interspersed with him drawing his fingers in circles on the table and earning even more strange looks, that France had opted out of hearing another word and decided that dessert was the most pressing matter at hand. This had left Scotland to mentally trail after him and desire nothing more than to go and beg forgiveness, yet he'd stayed right where he was to carry on talking.  
  
The only one who looked like they’d actually listened to a word of all Scotland’s crap had been Other-Wales, and Scotland assumes it had been out of the same sense of fair-play and politeness he’s known his own little brother to have. The little sod will quietly drink in most anything that anyone says despite how utterly pathetic it sounds. Apparently there’s more benefit to such actions than Scotland would have given credit before this whole mess.  
  
Other-Wales had made a small bid to defend the idea, making some comment about how it sounded reasonable enough, that it was worth a try because they didn’t know everything there was to know about magic themselves.  That had sparked an argument between Romano and Other-England over how incompetently Other-England threw his magic around and how he wasn’t even capable of fixing whatever the fuck it was had happened before that seems to have left some kind of massive scar on the mind of everyone in the room – Scotland isn’t sure what it was, and hadn’t been interested enough to ask – and that _obviously_ it must have been the work of Scotland’s own England, and that he was likely much, much more powerful. Scotland might have argued against that had he felt more obligated.  
  
Everyone was too far-gone in the fight to even notice Scotland excusing himself, under the guise of using the toilet or grabbing a fresh drink or drinking his own piss; he barely remembers because he’d made his escape far too quickly.  
  
He paces back down the corridor for a third lap, feeling emboldened by the time he reaches the door and promising himself that he’ll step into the kitchen and talk to France. Yet each time his courage manages to drift away before he can step inside, and he makes an excuse to turn and walk away again.  
  
If it were anyone else he’d have barged in there, laid down the law and left again five times over by now, but France had looked so unimpressed by his explanation of how to make a spell strong enough to force a spirit back into its own dimension that Scotland had begun to doubt himself over how well it might actually work.  
  
He needs to talk to Other-France eventually, though. He’s certain it really doesn’t matter about how the other nation might feel. He’s more interested in getting home to his own France and for things to be normal and less confusing. Yet his nagging inability to simply put anything France-shaped out of his mind gets the better of him and he finds himself suddenly in the kitchen, the entire script he’d prepared gone from his mind and eyes settling on the way France chops at an apple, focused and dedicated and only glancing up at Scotland with a dry look that suggests distraction.  
  
“ _Ecosse_ ,” France greets, voice as rigid as the icing on a Christmas cake. Then his eyes drop away, back to his work and it suddenly feels a lot like being at home: barging in on France after being evicted from the kitchen because he takes up far too much room and has no capacity towards cooking anything with France around because his recipes are fiddly and Scotland's hands far too large and unwieldy.  
  
It’s enough to almost send Scotland running from the room for good; maybe to lock himself in the upstairs study and get to work on drawing out the basic spell for his Other-Brothers to pick over.  
  
His feet root themselves to the spot, though, because no matter how small France has always been capable of making him feel, he keeps in mind that this isn’t his France. Not the man he fell in lo– is quite fond of, just somebody who looks, smells, moves and talks in exactly the same way, but with a slightly different personality and belief system.  
  
He has no reason to be afraid of this one, because the personal attachment he feels is superficial, and it’s that thought that makes him shake his head a little to clear his senses and open his mouth.  
  
“France,” he says, with a small smile to help ease himself into feeling more comfortable because otherwise he’d go back to the corridor and start pacing again like a complete tit, leaving France alone to get his work done.  
  
Scotland opts towards edging closer, hoping to build a little forward momentum.  
  
“I was hoping we could –” The word he wants to say, however, jams itself stubbornly into his chest cavity, leaving nothing but an awkward sound to evict itself from his mouth. His eyes fall to the apples being gently sliced up. “If I could help you with anything?” he says finally, though he expects nothing but a claim to everything being fine, and that Scotland should go do anything but waste space.  
  
He’s practically gone to turn and make himself scarce when France lifts his head, eyes wide and staring but mouth moving into an instinctive smile that gives Scotland a small reason to pause. That’s about the same as the widest smiles he gets from his own France, and his heart gives a small, hard thump at the sight; a thump that becomes a painful twisting knot as he remembers the photograph in Other-Scotland’s living room.  
  
His eyes slink to the floor, almost missing the way France motions for him to move closer. Yet he can’t seem to avoid catching it anyway and saunters over.  
  
“You could prepare the Chantilly cream, if you like,” France says, pointing towards a set of bowls he’s already set up, full of cream, a smaller bowl of icing sugar and something black and alien looking sitting alongside a knife on a chopping board. “Just split the vanilla pod in two, scrape the seeds into the cream, add the sugar, and then whisk it until it forms soft peaks. Will I need to show you how to do that?” he asks as he lifts a whisk and presses it into Scotland's hands.  
  
Scotland quickly gets to work labelling the alien-looking black thing as ‘vanilla pod,’ storing that information away and noting each of the steps France told him before making an assessment.  
  
“Seems simple enough, I think I can manage,” he says with a smile, setting the whisk down with the knife, which is sharp enough that Scotland is certain he could kill everyone in the house with it pretty easily if he got it into his head.  
  
He likely shouldn’t consider it.  
  
He chooses to quickly give his hands a wash, aware that France is keeping a close eye on him, perhaps sensing his fleeting thought of killing and mayhem. He keeps his mind on his prescribed task, having something to do helps him focus and forget for the moment that France is even there.  
  
He dries his hands off and gets back to the chopping board, plucking up the knife in time to see France mentally dismiss him because he has his own work to do, adding, with a quick look over his shoulder, “Just let me know if you run in to any difficulties.”  
  
The vanilla pod, however, when Scotland decides to actually look at it, is completely foreign. He has no idea how to go about actually dismembering one and makes a couple of false starts as he alters his angle of attack before deciding that it likely doesn’t even matter _how_ he gets the seeds out. He goes to stab the stupid thing, only to be stopped by France grabbing his wrist.  
  
If he didn’t know it was France, he might have responded by whirling around and slicing somebody’s face open.  
  
He turns his head to see what the problem is, and finds France looking a little distraught. Maybe France can read minds in this world, and is aware of Scotland's slightly sinister thoughts?  
  
That makes no sense at all.  
  
“Actually,” France says, relaxing slightly when Scotland turns to eye him, pulling a sweet smile back onto his face despite the hint of panic Scotland still sees lurking there, “deseeding vanilla is a little tricky. Perhaps I should do that part myself, and then you can get on with the rest."  
  
Scotland gets the impression that he’s being mollycoddled, yet allows the knife to be taken off him and makes a tiny retreat backwards to allow France to take over.  
  
“Sorry, I –” he starts off, his hands drifting behind his back to help fortify his posture before it can deflate too far, shuffling slightly as the thought returns that he should stop being a hassle and get out of the way. “I’ve never been very good in the kitchen,” he says finally.  
  
He only feels halfway competent when on his own, or with Northern Ireland, who has the same attitude towards cooking as Scotland does.  
  
France lets out a small chuckle that lets Scotland ease his eyes back towards him cautiously, wondering if he’s being mocked and should be offended. He sees nothing but good humour and some small hint of fondness that lifts his spirits slightly.  
  
“Well, then that's something you have in common with my Scotland. To say he's the type who can burn water is vastly overstating his abilities," France says, adding some perspective to his response to the making of bacon. Though how any man can go without the basic ability to cook and feed himself makes Scotland feel slightly cynical. “He has just about managed to get the hang of preparing this now, though.”  
  
Well that’s marvellous, Scotland thinks, he can’t even make bacon but at least he can make foofy French dessert dressings. That makes it all alright.  
  
After looking a little thoughtful, France makes a motion for Scotland to come a little closer. When Scotland complies, France grips his hand and manipulates it, easing out his thumb.  
  
“And I'm sure you can, too. Here,” France moves Scotland’s thumb to the vanilla pod, pressing it down against one end. “You need to hold one end first, so that it doesn't slide away from you when you start cutting,” France says, allowing his hand to drift away from Scotland’s after he starts pressing his thumb down of his own accord.  
  
“Alright, then what?” Scotland asks eagerly, already fascinated by this lesson. His France has always been faster to scoot him aside than to teach, and he thinks that perhaps this lesson might be useful, even if only to show Northern Ireland and expand the little one's knowledge of practical tasks.  
  
France's mouth curls into a smile, as if there’s any reason Scotland might shy away from learning. To Scotland’s mind cooking is no different to fighting, navigating a landscape or building something. It’s a series of tasks that requires a little knowledge and practice. Little more than that.  
  
“Now you press the tip of the knife just beyond your thumb,”  France takes hold of Scotland's other hand and eases it into position, “then draw it _away_ from you.” France says this last emphatically, like it’s something Scotland wouldn’t know. Cutting anything towards your body has always struck Scotland as akin to trying to sword-fight while gripping the sharp bit.  
  
A serious lack of common fucking sense.  
  
Which is why Northern Ireland cannot be trusted with a potato peeler, because he cuts towards himself with that and ends up mutilating his fingers regardless of how much Scotland tells him not to!  
  
He turns his mind back to the lesson, as France draws an invisible line along the little vanilla pod. “Along the length of the pod,” he clarifies, nodding to himself then looking to Scotland to see if he’s been listening.  
  
Scotland catalogues all this information under his new ‘Vanilla pod’ file before running his own finger along the same line to get his bearing on the idea. Then he lifts the knife and gets to work, slowly cutting the pod along its centre and only vaguely aware of France's encouraging nods.  
  
“Yes, just like that. When you've done, move your thumb to the other end so you can cut the part you've been covering.”  
  
Scotland does as instructed, shifting his thumb to the other side of the pod and continuing his cut with a little more confidence. He then looks back to France for further details on what he should do next, and feels some pause when he sees the beaming smile on the man's face.  
  
He’s not really sure why cutting open a piece of fruit – is a vanilla pod even a piece of fruit? Scotland isn’t sure – elicits such a response, but the smile is glorious and beautiful and he feels his own lips curve cheerfully as well, eyes dimming with misplaced affection.  
  
“Now, pry the pod open along the split, and _gently_ scrape the seeds into the cream with the edge of the knife,” France instructs, motioning to the pod to get Scotland’s attention back on it, and Scotland obliges.  
  
However, the word _gently_ rings in his ears. He’s never been gentle, not since he first had the opportunity to hold a baby or sew his first button onto a shirt. Gentle is the realm of England, Wales and Ireland, with Scotland being more akin to brute strength and ignorance when his knowledge on a thing ran out.  
  
His fingers start to feel less like the thinner ones he's currently in possession of and more like his own; shorter and thicker and incapable of anything but causing pain and destruction with their rough, thick skin and badly attended nails.  
  
Scotland tentatively forces his fingers to ease the pod open, keeping an eye on France’s expression lest he be too heavy handed and kill the stupid thing outright. The look of horror never appears, though, and soon he’s using the knife with all the delicacy he owns as he scrapes out a good portion of the seeds, exhuming them from their pod coffin.  
  
Fascinated by them, he brings the knife a little closer to take a look. “Jesus, they're really fucking small.”  
  
More new information for his vanilla pod log.  
  
Then he drops the seeds into the cream, eyeing the pod and becoming aware that there’s still a good measure of seeds contained within.  
  
He makes it his business to get every last one out, but is stopped when France peeks into the cream, looking like the seeds might have caught fire since being dropped into the bowl. “That should be enough, _mon cher_. We only need a hint of flavour.”  
  
Scotland immediately stops what he’s doing. One more bit of information: Vanilla seeds not to be overused.  
  
“If you say so,” he says, lifting the icing sugar and scattering it into the bowl with the cream and taking the whisk into his possession.  
  
Whipping up cream is the one fucking job England will actually let him do around Christmas time, because apparently a bit of brute strength really helps the stuff to rise, and because England expects him to be helpful while doing absolutely nothing except staying out of the way.  
  
"And I just do this till it has soft peaks?” he asks, just to make sure, as he starts to turn the whisk through the cream, gently at first then picking up his pace a little.  
  
“Yes, that's just right,” France coos, looking delighted and impressed, and Scotland feels strangely accomplished despite knowing that what he's done is essentially a very basic task. Still, he lets himself relish the pride a little, until France grips his shoulder and presses a kiss to his cheek that just catches the corner of Scotland’s mouth.  
  
His whisking stops and he feels himself flush as a warmth drifts over him that makes him break into a smile even though he knows he should look unaffected.  
  
“Thank you for showing me,” he says, gazing into Other-France's eyes and noting now that they’re the same exact colour, and that they gleam in the same way when France is happy, and that –  
  
That they still aren’t his France's eyes, no matter how much he might want them to be.  
  
The smile slides off his face and he looks down to his cream, to stop the thoughts where they are. His chest begins to ache afresh when he thinks that he hasn’t gotten a look like that since he was a boy and that he might never get it again.  
  
He gently eases the whisk from its place in the bowl to check the consistency, it’s beginning to peak now and he gets back to work with a little less vigour than before. “It was very kind of you considering I –” he starts off, but the words taper away to nothing. He can only watch France drop back a pace, his eyes widening and looking slightly haunted. “'I'm holding you back from your pastry thing,” he says finally.  
  
France's line of sight drops to Scotland's hands, eyes trained on the circular motion and teeth sinking into his lower lip.  
  
“It was my pleasure, _Ecosse,_ ” he says, the notes of his voice trembling and shaking like a loose window frame in heavy wind. “It's a _Tarte aux pommes_ ,” he then clarifies distractedly, allowing his teeth to release their grip on his lower lip, though an indentation has been left there. “And if I don't get it finished soon, I suspect _Nord_ might start eating the table decorations in desperation.”  
  
He looks as though he might move, but then offers only a small, pained-sounding excuse for a laugh, his gaze still lingering on Scotland’s hands.  
  
It makes Scotland feel strange and uncomfortable, but France's last sentiment fills him up with a strain of hope he thought he had lost somewhere along the way.  
  
“'Sounds like my boy back home,” he says with a faint chuckle, yet the smile slithers off his face at the very thought of his little brother.  
  
He admits to himself that he misses him, even if he’s a pest and an annoyance.  
  
Scotland wants to show him how to make this stupid cream and eat it along side whatever ridiculous thing Northern Ireland thinks to attempt making, and –  
  
“Are you alright?” he asks suddenly when France's eyes have rendered Scotland's hands incapable of whisking anymore, and to distract himself from the unfamiliar feeling pain that might otherwise bring a lump to his throat. He effectively swallows his sentimentality as he always does.  
  
“Yes,” France says, much too quickly for Scotland to ever believe. Indeed, France seems to take a second to rethink before looking away with a disheartened sigh. “Not entirely. I'm finding this all a little more difficult than I expected. The last time this happened, there was no mistaking England's presence in Scotland's body, but you? Some of your gestures, the way you look at me...? It's quite easy to forget for a moment that you're not really him, it seems,” he burbles out, and Scotland deflates slightly. “And, well…”  
  
He feels once again like a massive impostor. Undesired. Serving only as a replacement for another and little more than that. It’s a familiar feeling that causes him to set the bowl aside and lean on the counter.  
  
France seems like he might desire to use the contents of the bowl in ways neither of them would appreciate in the long run.  
  
“Oh,” he says pathetically, casting his borrowed eyes over to take in France’s deflated form, and the way his eyes seem to water slightly. It must be horrible, Scotland imagines, to have someone else stuck in the body of somebody you care about so much.  
The only people who are going to miss him are his brothers, and he rather doubts that, as well, because he’s got this horrible, unrelenting fear, one he’s been trying to ignore, that perhaps he’s simply the inferior model in every aspect.  
  
Undesirable and pointless as an entity.  
  
It’s a shame it took a fucking hitchhike across a dimension to realise it.  
  
Before he can stop himself, his arm reaches around France's shoulder and tugs him closer. He's not sure if it’s because he needs to find a way to cheer France up, or if what he needs is simply to feel something; to have somebody there.  
  
“I’m so sorry about all of this. I'll do everything I can to get him back for you, I promise,” he croaks out, feeling his throat start to burn when France nestles a touch closer, and he tightens his grip protectively as he would around his own France. “'The only reason I ever tried to deceive you was because I didn't want to spoil anything for this Scotland.” He can smell France’s cologne and feel his heart beat thumping in his chest, and feels compelled to add, “He’s very lucky to have you.”  
  
Because Other-Scotland _is_ very lucky. He only hopes the guy knows it, because Scotland’s not planning on telling him.  
  
He releases his grip slightly and lets out a shuddering breath that helps get his chest moving in its usual pattern while France rests his head against his shoulder.  
  
“Thank you," France says, so quietly that it’s almost lost in the green fabric of Other-Scotland’s shirt. After drawing in one last deep breath, he moves away slowly and gets to work adjusting his hair and clothing, making it presentable. “And there's no need to apologise; I can understand why you did what you did. If this had happened a few years ago, I never would have believed you, and you had no way of knowing that I…” France cuts himself off suddenly, frowning slightly.  
  
Scotland can only take a step away, to get to a respectable distance, nodding along France's sentiment.  
  
“The France I know would have said I was crazy and refused to believe a word of it. He always has,” Scotland grumbles. Somehow he feels very long-suffering after all this, and the added remembrance of France ignoring all his family's warnings about magic and curses drifts back, adding further to the buzzing pain, yet it’s a strangely comfortable ache, one he’s grown to live with; almost enjoying the annoyances France causes him. “'He sees the fae for himself, still lets me talk him out of believing.”  
  
France saw Ireland's Leprechaun while taking an unwarranted jaunt into England’s chamber of magical fucking horrors and came out of it no closer to believing. He had been very clingy for the remainder of his visit, however, and Scotland had enjoyed that. He always does when France seems to need him.  
  
“That's all I wanted to say, so I should get out of your hair,” Scotland says, to get himself back on track. He needs to think about writing down these spells and how to explain himself a little more clearly, and get to work strangling Other-England if the chance arises.  
  
“You don’t have to leave,” France’s smile returns, if only a little, and his voice rises and clears like the air after a heavy storm. “In fact, I would appreciate the company, as I intend on staying in here until the _tarte_ has finished cooking. Hopefully, by that time, _Angleterre_ and Romano will finally have finished their argument.”  
  
With France’s tone back to its easy and confident baseline, Scotland feels his own spirits start to rise again, stopping him from making his hasty retreat and watching as France gets back to work on his apple tart.  
  
Scotland spots a few scraps of papers left in a pile on the side and gets to work lifting one, pouring his left over negative emotions into a quick cleansing circle and helping to erase them before he gets to work on the more complicated spell he’ll need to get home.  
  
“That reminds me,” he says, earning a small sound of interest from France who’s delicately arranging his apple slices and looking blissful once more. “What exactly _are_ Romano and Iceland doing here?” he asks, convinced that it must be something to do with a fucked up empire, or maybe some sort of invasion, except a really polite one where everyone has a meal together.  
  
Maybe they’ve just sort of shown up and nobody's had the courage to tell them to piss off?  
  
“Well, Scotland issued an open invitation for this evening, something he later regretted,” France says with a small smile. “This is _Islande_ and _Nord_ 's third date, I believe."  
  
That explanation distracts Scotland from his work and makes his ears prick up. Northern Ireland here is actually socially competent enough to be in a _relationship_? Scotland’s own little one can’t even make friends or talk to other teens on anything close to an amiable level. He almost opens his mouth to ask how that happened, to see what other-Scotland has done with his little brother to get this sort of response (assuming Other-North is not merely more of a charmer than his own, which Scotland highly doubts from what he’s seen).  
  
He’s interrupted from posing this flurry of questions though by France, who’s apparently now content that all his apples are well placed and has started to sprinkle sugar over them tenderly. “And Romano is here with _Cymru_. _Angleterre_ , as you've seen, is not best pleased with either of their choice of guest.”  
  
“That's nice, our own Northern Ireland is a bit –” Scotland starts off, because he really wants to carry on this line of thought, but the rest of France's words sink in and twist Scotland’s own up. “Wales and Romano? Together?” he splutters out, feeling his eyes become small and his mouth curve into a sinister grin.  
  
“Yes, for..." France dusts sugar from his hands as he thinks it over for a moment, and then confirms, “Almost two years now."  
  
Scotland can feel his laughter start to form, starting off as a small strangled _snrk_ , that builds into a snort, eventually forcing its way out of his body in a loud amused boom of laughter that causes France to whirl and stare at him in surprise.  
  
“That’s fucking hilarious,” Scotland wheezes, his laughter petering out slightly.  
  
He can’t wait to tell his family about this; it's been worth the visit if only to make Wales’ quality of life a single degree poorer. He does, however, rein himself in for the moment, clearing his throat and trying to look like he hadn’t just burst an artery over the news, because Other-Wales isn’t his brother, and – despite his being obviously very, very strange and perhaps not quite the improvement Scotland had believed –  it’s likely rude to laugh about such a thing.  
  
He knows it was a bad idea, because France gives him a scolding look; a frown of such disapproval that Scotland’s laughter subsides completely.  
  
“Honestly, _Ecosse_ ,” France chides with a lamenting shake of his head. “They seem very hap–” He pauses, seemingly incapable of finishing the sentence. A repressed smile tries to lumber over his features, eventually turning itself into the worst attempt at keeping a straight face Scotland has ever seen. “Well, they have yet to try and kill each other, in any case,” he says finally, nodding in agreement with himself.  
  
The two of them look to one another to make an assessment, before bursting into laughter all over again.

 


	10. Chapter 10

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 9:30 am**  
  
  
On his first foray into Other-Scotland's dining room, Scotland had been quite impressed by how tidy it was; far neater than he had ever been able to keep his, even with regular interference from France and the hard – though erratic – work of the ùruisg.  
  
His search for Other-Scotland's personal effects had rendered the difference several degrees less striking, however, leaving the floor strewn with almost as many piles of paper and heaps of random dross as his own habitually sports. He tries to ease as many as he can beneath the table with the side of his foot in the brief moment he's alone before his other-brothers arrive, but it does little to diminish the general rubbish dump type ambience of the room.  
  
Wales, at least, doesn't seem to care about the deterioration in cleanliness, and simply pushes the small pile of books off the first chair he stumbles to before sinking onto the seat like a badly made soufflé (a sight Scotland became intimately familiar with before France's patience finally ran out and he deemed them irrevocably stricken from all of his future cooking lessons for the sake of his blood pressure). England, on the other hand, surveys the mess with the sort of supercilious mien that suggests he's judging his absent brother for this seemingly new low of slovenliness, but also finding some measure of gratification in his disgust. He opts out of approaching the table entirely, choosing instead to stick close to the wall, arms folded tight against his chest as though in an attempt to shield himself from any further disorder.  
  
Ireland, following close on England's heels, eases the door shut behind him and then leans against it, letting out a relieved-sounding sigh.  
            
"Thank fuck," he mutters under his breath.  
  
"This had better be important, Ireland," England growls. He both looks and sounds leery of his brother, as though he imagines this might all been some sort of ruse to lure him into a trap for nefarious reasons that simply have yet to make themselves apparent. "I don't trust France with –"  
  
"I'd say it's pretty fucking important," Ireland interrupts sharply, irritation rippling briefly but clearly across his face. The smile that he gives Scotland afterwards seems genuine enough, however, as does the one he has for Wales when he sets the fig rolls he was carrying down on the table, and his brother looks at him and them with all the exhausted gratitude of marathon runner who's finally come in sight of the finish line. "Do you want to tell them or should I?"  
           
Scotland glances around, taking in Wales' weary slump, and England's tense posture, and decides that the explanation's probably best coming from someone who's _actually_ their brother as it might improve, if not guarantee, his chances of it being believed.  
  
"You go ahead, mate," he says, chuckling. "I don't think I did the best job of it last time."  
          
Although Ireland nods in agreement, his voice is far less positive, trailing into silence soon after he starts to speak. "Alright, now this is going to sound a bit odd…"  
  
England face hardens at the hesitation; suspicion remoulded into something that more closely resembles anger. "Get on with it. What have you two done?"  
          
"That's not Scotland," Ireland blurts out, the words running together into near incomprehensibility in his haste to disgorge them.  
          
England and Wales exchange confused glances at that (albeit short-lived on Wales' part, who seems to lack the energy to sustain the emotion, and soon lapses into what appears to be blank indifference to anything save the existence of fig rolls once again), seemingly unsure how to react.  
  
"Are you out of your tiny mind? This is not funny!" England hisses eventually, his body twitching with a surge of sudden movement that looks like an aborted lunge towards his brother; violent but very quickly and efficiently contained.  
          
"I'm not joking, England." A touch of confidence seems to return to his countenance. "His magic is out of line with mine. It's never done that before. We've had the same interwoven magical heartbeat since we were babies."  
          
England closes his eyes, and tentatively unravels his magic towards Scotland. The two strands meet – as his and Ireland's had before – in a chaotic jumble whose backlash makes England flinch, his eyebrows shooting up in alarm.  
  
"Obviously some kind of trick," he says, nevertheless, clearly more inclined towards disbelieving anything Ireland might have to say even over the evidence of his own senses, much like Scotland's own England would be.  
          
"It's impossible to throw off the magical aura, you know that. So what I want to know," Ireland says, his glower bespeaking as much distrust as his brother's brusque dismissal, "is if you've been doing any funny magical stuff behind our backs?"  
          
England bares his teeth slightly, his back arching and feet settling themselves into a combative stance that Ireland swiftly mirrors. "I beg your pardon?!"  
         
Scotland forces himself to step forward, insinuating himself between the two of them in the hope that his current walking wall of a frame might serve as a sufficient impediment to their launching themselves at each other as they so clearly want to. He's more than willing to believe that his current predicament was all either this England's fault or his own, but a fistfight, no matter how justified, is something they simply don't have time for at the moment.  
  
"More than enough time for the blame game later, guys," he says. "Like after I get home. Which Ireland seemed to think you could help with?"  
        
Ireland's clenched fists hitch upwards a little, doubtless propelled by the lingering and wholly understandable need to plant themselves firmly in the middle of England's sneering face, but the long, deep breath he takes seems to relax both them and the rest of his body. "When you're right, you're right," he says with a small upwards twist of his lips.  
  
"And how do you propose we…" England's expression takes a sudden turn towards incredulity, and, with a certain expectant weight, his attention settles on Scotland again. "I'm going to hate asking you this, but if you're not our brother then who exactly are you?"  
       
"I know this is going to sound fucking ridiculous, and I wouldn't believe it myself if it hadn't happened to me, but I'm also Scotland. Just one from... elsewhere,"  Scotland says, waving one hand vaguely in the air, trying to indicate another dimension, though he suspects it might look like he's just reaffirming that he came from the kitchen due to the accidental correspondence of that room and the gesture's direction.  
      
"You're right, that does sound fucking ridiculous," England says, his eyes shifting towards Ireland. His voice lowers as he asks, "Surely you don't expect us to swallow this tripe?"  
      
"And you think we'd make something this absurd up?" Ireland turns towards Wales, presumably looking for some input from less belligerent quarters. "What do you think, Wales?"  
      
Although Wales' eyes are glazed, there do contain a dim spark of something that looks a lot like thoughtfulness. "I thought something was off about Scotland when I arrived," he says, extracting another fig roll from the packet he's clutching tight. "And I can tell he's nobody we know, so his story must have some small seed of truth to it. Besides, Other-Scotland here obviously wants to get home; it's only fair that we help."  
     
"Thanks, Wales." Scotland smiles at him gratefully, thankful for the support, which at least tips the numbers in his favour if nothing else. "I don't know that there's any way to prove that I am who I say, you'll just have to take it on trust," he says to England, and he can hear a pleading note in his own voice that he doesn’t much care for, but which he cannot seem to dampen. "And, if you're as much like my England as you seem to be, I know that won't be easy when it's coming out of this mouth, but that's just the way it is.  
  
"Look, just tell me what you need me to do and I'll do it. My magic's not exactly well suited for particularly complicated spells, but it is powerful. So, if you need muscle, it's there."  
  
Wales smiles gently and goes back to sipping his tea with nothing more than a small nod, but England still looks stubborn and defiantly poised to argue further.  
  
Ireland's gaze skips silently between England and Wales for so long that Scotland starts to become concerned that he's given up on trying to persuade his brother entirely.  
  
A concern that is summarily dismissed when Ireland makes a contemptuous hand gesture, and says, "I think I see what's wrong here. You're worried you can't pull off a spell powerful enough to counteract whatever's happened. I suppose I don't blame you. Wales and I can just do it without you and –"  
  
"Fine," England snaps, the faintly pitying tone of Ireland's voice landing him an obvious blow square in his pride, as it was doubtless calculated to. "We'll help the Time Lord here get out of our brother..." Something about the idea clearly appeals to England, as his face brightens and his words become more enthusiastic sounding. "We can clear the dining room floor and set a cleansing spell out in salt. All we need is a well designed circle. Wales, I –"  
  
"It'll have to wait, _Lloegr_ ," Wales says, leaning heavily against the table as he pushes himself laboriously to his feet. "I'm afraid I'm not exactly in any shape to be designing complicated cleansing circles let alone performing a spell powerful enough to send you back into another dimension." Wales' voice sounds drained, but sympathetic all the same. "It takes a clear mind and a sound body to do both and I'm sadly lacking in those. I need to rest."  
  
He draws his arms tight around his body, as though in an effort to retain heat, which, judging by the pallid cast of his skin, he desperately needs. "Otherwise I might make a mistake, and I'm not sure it's worth the risk."  
  
Scotland manages to fight the urge to go and shake Other-Wales by the shoulders and tell him to stop being so soft –  as he would his own Wales in the same circumstances – only by reminding himself that it's just not polite to go manhandling other people's brothers and thus offence might be taken if he does.  
  
"Just how long a rest are we talking about?" he asks, his frustration straining his voice almost to breaking point.  
  
"Give me an hour at least. Maybe two." Wales looks remorseful, and his eyes drift towards the floor. "Sorry."  
  
 "England and I can make a start on the work at least." Ireland crosses his arms tightly over his chest. "France and North will be nice and distracted in the kitchen for a while so we have plenty of time."  
  
Scotland's own England and the rest of them aren't due to arrive at his house until lunchtime, so the delay's not insurmountable, his return not yet urgent, but he had hoped to be back home sooner, all the same. Nevertheless, he has to reluctantly admit, all the haste in the world won't be worth it if it makes Wales keel over and ruin the spell.  
  
"Okay," he says, "I guess we've got a plan, then."  
  


 

* * *

 

  
**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 9:50 am**

 

Wales isn’t entirely sure if the air in Scotland’s home is just more unreasonably stuffy than it might usually be. His head feels like it’s stuck in syrup (not even the thinner, more delicious maple variety that Canada sometimes offers them as a gift, but the thicker, sicklier golden syrup England might use for making flapjack or some kind of sponge pudding). The thought of food, however, causes Wales' stomach to do yet another barrel roll.

His whole body seems to have taken a reaction to the joys of travel as well as the strange news that his brother isn’t his brother anymore. His concern over the matter is firmly set aside, though; he feels far too unwell, and experience has taught him that magic and being sick generally aren’t great bedmates.

Exiting the room had been a challenge though, because he got the strong impression that Other-Scotland is as proactive as his own, and hadn’t appreciated the stalling.  He only felt he could when England started a long winded, rather dull sounding lecture about how they should lay the spell out – leading Wales to believe that his little brother might need medical attention at some point, yet willing to take that chance – that Other-Scotland had no real interest in, making less than subtle hints about wanting England to get on with it.

Which was closely followed by Ireland chiming in that England was an arsehole, and that led to an argument between the two.

Wales sets it out of his mind, even as the argument predictably grows loud enough in volume that he can still hear England’s high whine of a voice from the top of the stairs. He pauses to consider pottering down and telling the useless bastard to behave himself when they have company.

Instead, he moves towards the spare bedroom, thoughts of a nap under warm sheets (with that glorious smell of cheap detergent and disuse) filling his head. He can open the window and let in some fresh air and pretend to be back in Cardiff, his pet birds safe and sound in his kitchen, his brothers all far away and not able to hurt one another.

All of Wales’ carefully crafted hopes and dreams are shattered by the sight of the unmade bed, leading him to remember that Scotland never wanted them here to begin with, and that he’d gone to the effort of smearing something sticky on his kitchen floor in a bid to annoy England, so making the bed was likely not on his list of priorities.

He could make it himself, Wales supposes reluctantly. He’ll need to eventually if he and England are going to sleep anywhere tonight, and the spare single mattress will have to be dragged out from under the bed so North and take up residence on the floor beside them. Ireland will also need somewhere to rest his head, so the sofa will likely need some furnishing, not to mention having France around.

Good thing this house has thick walls.

Wales purses his lips, feeling the responsibility of housesitting for his brother to be just too much of a trial. England might usually be more of a help, but he’s preoccupied. As such Wales turns on his heel and slinks cautiously towards his older brother's bedroom, shivering slightly when he studies the door that’s been left ajar. Easing it open slowly, he peers inside at the otherwise unfamiliar sanctuary that is Scotland’s bedroom.

A room Wales has never entered for as long as they’ve had separate bedrooms. England’s room, yes, often; Northern Ireland's, when he was smaller, yes, because he had to be dressed and pulled out from underneath beds, and Wales suspects he sometimes still needs the latter from what he hears of England’s complaining.

Scotland’s room is just one of those places nobody ever goes anymore. Northern Ireland is too big to be climbing in beside him at night, and Scotland has never felt the need to barge into anyone else's room since Northern Ireland grew old enough to fend for himself.

The first step Wales takes sends a shiver up his spine, the air growing steadily thicker, alarm bells braying at him about how stupid and dangerous this is, even with Scotland apparently being gone. If he happens to come back then Wales' entire life will be forfeit.

The only thing that coaxes him into stepping into the room completely is the overwhelming chill of his entire body, the pounding in his head and further knotting of his stomach. He’s starting to wonder if it isn't merely a dose of especially bad travel sickness but some reaction to the change in Scotland’s magical aura.

He’s always been more delicate about these sorts of things, and while the change is a small one, the alternate rhythm breaking like waves against Wales is dragging a massive amount more sand out from under his feet than usual.

He wishes he has the fortitude of Ireland or the intangibility of England. Even the quiet indifference of _Mannin_ or downright ignorance of Northern Ireland would be an improvement, instead of this insubstantial silt that‘s so easily sapped from him.

He’s momentarily distracted from this thought by his eyes wandering around, unobtrusively at first because he has no business being in here at all, yet his attention eventually meanders towards a desk, covered in as much clutter as Scotland seems capable of piling on there.

Including the various little love spoons Wales has given Scotland over the course. He can’t help lifting one, turning it in his hand and smiling over the rush of warm brotherly affection he remembers putting into the delicate carving.

He quickly remembers, too, that Scotland had scowled at the thing like it would give him some kind of disease and told him that only lovesick boys ever made these things as marriage proposals, and that Wales making them for everyone was disturbingly creepy. Then he’d pitched it aside, and –

Wales had been sure he’d thrown all of these out.

He supposes the fact they’re still here, amid this chaos should be taken as some compliment, though Scotland might just be planning on setting fire to them in effigy.

Instead of thinking too hard about it – because he knows Scotland likely hasn’t anyway – he turns his attention to an ornament that Wales remembers Scotland casually stealing off England just before he’d moved house in the nineties.

A small boy and a dog, walking together, as if escaping from a place that made them feel repressed and then finding the freedom is so delicious that they‘re eager to stay away. Or that would be the reasoning Wales might give to it, if Scotland hadn’t propped a pencil rather stupidly on the boys outstretched hands, turning into the most ineffective pencil holder in existence.

It’s an ugly ornament too, all muddy browns and horribly moulded faces and poses. Thankfully most of the others in this collection had been broken, partly by Scotland, whose aim always improved dramatically when whatever he was throwing was ugly, breakable and of value to England, but the main culprit had been Northern Ireland, who had been the single most destructive force on the planet when it came to the decimation of most anything when he was little.

Wales feels a sudden lurch in his stomach, a hungering for those old days when he, Scotland, England, Ireland or Northern Ireland lived alongside one another. It’s a fluttering pain in his chest that he extinguishes by remembering that Scotland, Ireland and Northern Ireland seem perfectly happy living separately, and that England seems well adjusted to having his own space, even if Wales still seems unable to get used to it.

He slinks away from the desk and sits on the bed, reluctantly at first before curling up on the sheets and letting his fingers curl into the soft blue fabric of Scotland's bed, ignoring the way he can still faintly smell his brother's aftershave. He even manages to get his eyes closed, feeling the blaring headache subside slightly, leaving only a dull ache behind.

Much better.

He barely even notices the loud knock on the door, the loud footsteps or the thump of something vaguely heavy landing on the floor.

But the sound of Scotland’s voice is another matter entirely.

“I thought you might need this,” it rumbles out, causing Wales' eyes to snap open, his heart to start thumping painfully in his chest, and his throat to make a strangled yelp of surprise as he instinctively starts to move away after jerking himself straight up on the bed, easing his arm into a position that might help shield him from Scotland hitting him.

All of his begging that Scotland not hurt him, or kill him, or glare at him refuses to take form because his panic is too great, and he feels his eyes widen and his posture shrink before his mind starts to replay – slowly – what he was even doing in here to begin with, supplemented by a rekindled feeling of magical resonance gone askew.

This isn’t his brother, it just looks like him.

It helps Wales start breathing a little steadier and to cast his eyes towards the bag now lying on the floor. He nods with all the automation of a primitive robot. “Th... thank you,” he mumbles, unsure if he even needed his belongings for a nap. He offers Scotland, or Other-Scotland as the case may be, a respectful smile and then eases his eyes away in case this one is as hostile as the old one. “That’s very thoughtful.”

Thinking of Scotland as an older model causes Wales to scold himself inwardly. It’s not like they aren’t getting their brother _back_. Wales begins to wonder where exactly this Other-Scotland actually came from, how sad it must be for him to be stuck here with them. Perhaps his own family isn’t quite so –

However one would even describe them. It's probably best not to start.

“I had nothing better to do,” Other-Scotland says dismissively, causing Wales to feel again that, really, it is his brother who now stalks towards the desk, subjecting each item to intense scrutiny. Wales is compelled to stare after him, assessing his threat level and finding it hard to settle with the large redhead right there.

“Did you buy these for him?” Other-Scotland asks suddenly, causing Wales to draw his eyes towards the items in question: the love spoons. “We've all got drawers full of them at home, because Wales... my Wales can't seem to resist the buying the damn things, but then he's got absolutely no idea what to do with them. I keep telling him that normal people bring a bottle of wine or something when they visit, but, no, it's always another bloody love spoon."

Wales nods along with this, watching Other-Scotland shake his head with the same sort of lamentation his own Scotland might display when forced to say anything at all about Wales; usually a comment about him being odd, useless or pathetic depending on who’s doing the asking, and what mood Scotland happens to be in at the time.

“No, I made those myself,” Wales mumbles, deciding that other-Scotland can really do as he pleases, since this is Scotland's bedroom. He can’t really evict him. But his mind lingers on the mention of this ‘Other-Wales’ – the idea of whom makes him feel a little defensive about his sense of uniqueness and self – but soon afterwards points out that Other-Scotland likely _would_ have an Other-Wales to go alongside.

Common sense.

“Really?” Other-Scotland lifts one of the spoons, and turns it in order to eye it with much heavier scrutiny, though Wales opts towards laying his head back down and closing his eyes. “You don't do a bad job of it,” Other-Scotland says, a sentiment that pricks at Wales’ ears because those words coming from that mouth are something he’s always longed to hear, yet they ring as false in the current context, stinking of a visitor's politeness.

“My Wales," Other-Scotland continues, “just buys them from tourist shops and the like. He's like England with his fucking tea towel collection.”

Wales decides this Scotland must have a really good relationship with his Wales, which stirs within him a seed of jealously until he remembers that perhaps this Scotland merely thinks that it’s a decent subject of conversation and his annoyance simmers down again. He is sort of interested in this Other-Wales, but not enough to start asking questions.

“Thank you,” he says, hoping to curb the flow of chatter from this much more talkative form of Scotland who now gets to work tromping over to the window and studying the collection of useless rocks that are scattered there; lifting each, observing it and setting it down again with a distinctive tap that makes Wales’ brow start to twitch.

He’s tempted to start talking about his own England’s love of keyrings in a bid to make Other-Scotland stop his infernal tapping, but knows better, forcing himself to curl up and attempt to sleep regardless of the annoyance.

His stomach won’t get better if he doesn’t relax.

“Do you want me to draw the curtains for you?” he gets asked suddenly, and Wales can’t help the way his eyes dart open. “It's nearly dark enough that you don't really need to, though, isn't it? Looks like it might snow in a bit…”

“It's fine,” Wales bleats, hoping it’ll be an end to it, hearing Other-Scotland either tapping the window as if to clarify his point, or lifting another of those rocks again and tapping it on the sill. “Really, thank you,” he adds, sounding rather desperate to his own ears. “I'm just very tired. It was a long drive and my medicines made me feel ill.” He allows his voice to drip with the hint that all he wants is for some peace.

The silence that befalls the room is a wonderful one that allows Wales to re-close his eyes and ball himself up a little more in search of heat for his still chilled body. He can forgive the way Other-Scotland potters across the floor.

Perhaps he’ll go and help Ireland keep an eye on England, or help France and Northern Ireland in the kitchen, or go for a walk because Wales is sure that anything claiming to be Scotland _must_ love to walk, anything to get him out of this room, and –

“Do you just get sick in cars then, or on boats too?” Other Scotland asks, and Wales feels suddenly very put upon. “My Wales threw up on the ferry to Dublin once, but I think that was because we drank about half the bar the night before, and he had some really suspicious looking sausages for breakfast.”

A sarcastic thank you for that stomach churning piece of information almost lashes from Wales' mouth, halted only by his still nagging fear of this Scotland being as keen on hitting as his brother, and a sense of politeness that’s usually served him well when dealing with strangers. What an odd combination.

Other-Scotland rounds all this off by stomping across the room, pushing all the clothing off the little seat by the bed, and sitting down on it with a droning, worrying creak that sets Wales’ teeth on edge and causes his eyebrows to scrunch down, meeting in the middle and forming irritated valleys.

He realises then, and only then – because he’s not functioning at full capacity – that Other-Scotland is not going to leave. Wales has no idea why, nor does he remotely care. “Most modes of transport make me feel at least a little ill. Been that way since I was tiny,” Wales mutters, remembering his earliest days of being dragged back with Rome on horseback, which had then been followed by Rome being forced to walk with him underarm while walking the horse along because Wales had been violently ill.

It serves to make his stomach heave painfully, and causes a flush of fear at the mere memory of Rome to beset his mind.

England must have thrown Other-Scotland aside, perhaps because he was incapable of shutting his mouth. Wales would honestly appreciate this apparent overfriendliness more if he wasn’t trying to rest himself in a bid to help the guy, and he presses his face a little tighter into the pillow, that hint of aftershave growing stronger and reminding Wales that his brother is gone.

And that round-houses his senses into choking up, because he’s not as upset as he should be. He doesn’t want his own brother _back_ , he just wants this one to go away, and the realisation that he’s a terrible little brother makes tears sting his already sore eyeballs and soak into the fabric of the pillow, his body now curled up even tighter so he can stay as small as possible.

“I think Wales would probably quite like to have a touch of that himself, actually, if only so he'd have a better excuse to leave his country as little as possible,” Other-Scotland says, making Wales decide that if he ever meets Other-Wales he’s going to immediately punch him directly in his stupid face, because he’s already heard far too much about him. He wants to get off the subject.

To get to fucking sleep.

To get his brother back.

And forget all this ever fucking happened.

“You're not going to throw up, are you?” Other-Scotland adds, and Wales shakes his head in response. Likely a lie, he might possibly need to at the rate this is going. Having Scotland’s hulking form loom near him in the room at all makes him feel like a child again, drawing his muscles tight and making relaxing a virtual impossibility.

Plus Scotland’s voice – and it’s still his brother's voice: abrasive, deep and tuning itself like bagpipes – does nothing but make his eyes start to dry themselves out, causing them to throb painfully in their sockets.

_Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tappity, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tappity, tappity, tap, tap, tap, tappity, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, tap._

Wales feels the need to peer at Other-Scotland, to see what he’s doing and where that horrible, off tempo noise is coming from. He appears to be drumming his fingers on the arm rest of the chair and Wales struggles to figure out if the little beat he’s making is _Greensleeves_ or _Wonder Wall_ and just as he becomes sure that it’s actually _Danny Boy_ , the rhythm changes.

He can only ease his arm over his head in a hope to drown out the grating tapping, yet it still worms its way into his ear canal, managing to rile up the part of him that adores music.

“Your brother sounds interesting,” he says finally, because Other-Scotland's voice is at least _less_ annoying than his tapping and he seems to really like talking about the subject.

And the tapping _does_ stop to be sure, but it's replaced by a bark of surprised sounding laughter; not as loud as Scotland's usual, but close enough.

“Wales? Jesus Christ, no. Not really,” Scotland assures him, making Wales feel very much like he's overhearing some conversation between his brother and one of the other nations who might possibly remember who he is and think to seek out an opinion. “I mean, he's not the worst brother I've got, but he's still a soppy, useless bastard most of the time.”

The words 'soppy', 'useless' and 'bastard' drill themselves into the area of Wales’ chest where his heart resides, making him feel small and insignificant, personally insulted for himself and feeling defensive for this Other-Wales, who probably doesn’t deserve to be talked about in such a manner, either.

Plus that infernal tapping has started up again, this time faster, causing Wales’ teeth to bare a little more, his hands to curl into fists and his heart to start thumping with adrenaline as his mind prepares to throw caution to the wind and tell Other-Scotland to shove it up his arse and get the fuck out of here before Wales finds a use for love spoons that he hadn’t considered before.

Just when he talks himself out of such action, Other-Scotland's foot catches on the bed, with another harsh squeal from the chair and a change again to the tempo of that drumming.

Wales sits up and ceases the chewing he was doing on the inside of his mouth, his eyes narrowing to slits and focusing on Other-Scotland.

“I hate to be rude,” he snarls, his fingers digging into fabric and eyebrows slung so low on his face that the strain is starting to make his headache come back, “but do you think you could stop that?” It’s barely even a question; the phrase ripping his voice to pieces till it’s little more than a low, feral sounding growl. “'I don't mind you sitting in here, but I am trying to get some sleep.” he adds, feeling his temper lose its footing to his more ingrained sense of politeness.

“Stop wha–” The tapping stops automatically as Other-Scotland glances down at his hand. He then grips the armrest tight in a bid to prevent himself from starting again, and offers a small, apologetic looking smile that helps Wales’ brows start to rise again. “Sorry, mate. I don't even notice I'm doing it most of the time. I just... feel like I should be doing something, but I'm being sod all help with the spell, and if your France is anything like mine, he won't appreciate me cluttering up the kitchen, either. So…”

Wales feels his temper diminish entirely, a surge of sympathy taking him over. He feels for his other-brother, he does, honestly, but he needs rest, and peace and quiet. All that besides, he's certain he heard some sentiment in Other-Scotland's voice that makes it hard to simply tell him to go be anywhere else.

Poor big guy must just miss his family, and England and Ireland bickering away downstairs and France and Northern Ireland busying up the kitchen can't be helping. Not that being in here is any real improvement to finding a place to sit alone and occupy yourself, he's sure. Wales glances down at his hands and gets to work shuffling his body about so he can finally draw the duvet over himself.

He casts Other-Scotland a quiet, hopefully kind sounding, “Why don't you keep me company then?” with a small pat of the bed beside him. Maybe that’s all Other-Scotland wants, some company, and he seems close to Other-Wales, maybe it’s a surrogate thing? Yet he did call his brother soppy and useless. Mixed messages. “You can have a nap beside me if you like. Better to be well rested,” he says, because if Other-Scotland is asleep, then he can’t possibly make any noise.

“You're all right," the man says, far too quickly, like Wales has just offered him casual sex or a blowjob or some such, which is ridiculous and Wales ignores the tone; it's probably just his imagination. “Though I might just sit on the bed – _the far side of the bed_ – if that's okay with you, and catch up on a bit of reading. This chair sounds about ready to collapse.”

Wales makes an agreeable noise as he once again settles his head onto the pillow, pulling the sheets up and shivering slightly at the added warmth. He hears Other-Scotland grab something off the desk. “I've got a copy of this myself at home and haven't got around to looking at it yet.”

Wales isn’t sure what he’s lifted, he's too busy trying to drum up a sleepy fog to roll himself into to notice. He assumes, however, that it must be some kind of documentation, because it’s all he saw on Scotland’s desk earlier, possibly something about agriculture or taxes or the price of everything being much too high.

“'At least _somebody_ will read it then, _Yr Alban_ ,” Wales mumbles, taking himself slightly by surprise with the affectionate term and hoping he can swallow it even after it leaves his mouth. He never even calls his brother by that name anymore.

Yet he allows himself to smile as he feels Other-Scotland drop himself like a tonne of bricks onto the bed, not lashing out at Wales to make up for the amiable little conversation that might make Scotland look too soft, or telling him to mind his own fucking business. Even the act of not finding reason to complain about England is refreshing.

“'My big brother just lets them migrate all around the house until they go missing,” Wales says quickly, drawing the covers a little tighter and relishing the warmth that now starts to leech into his joints, making him feel a little more relaxed than he did before.

“Aye, well, I try and do the same myself, but either the _ùruisg_ or France will dig them up eventually, and then I feel obliged to read them.” There’s a small pause as the papers get flipped over, with a bored seeming sort of silence that suggests there’s some kind of chart or a list of statistics, likely causing eyes to glaze, and Wales feels Scotland turn his attention to him before the nudge to his leg even happens. “You don't snore, do you? My Wales snores like a fucking plane taking off.”

Wales opens his mouth to respond, but he can’t answer, only allowing himself to scoot away, to ball himself up at the very corner of the bed.

“I don’t think I do,” he says finally, but when he thinks about it, he hasn’t slept alongside anyone but England or Netherlands in _years_ , though neither of them ever make any sort of comment about the experience the next morning. “I make no promises.” he clarifies, feeing suddenly a little cheap and dirty, thoughts of Netherlands swimming about his head and making him feel glorious and horrid all at once, until his body has all but balled up entirely in response.

“Well, if you do, I'll just roll you out of the bed or something, okay?” Scotland says, and Wales isn’t sure how serious he sounds. He mentally prepares himself for the shove, just in case.

“Okay,” Wales says, chancing a quick look at Other-Scotland, in hopes he might not look like his brother anymore, but is saddened slightly by the fact that he still very much looks like the man who still sometimes hits him, belittles him and calls him names. He thinks he might prefer to keep _this_ Scotland, and feels even more horrible upon thinking it, because disloyalty to his brother seems especially treacherous right now. Other-Scotland probably doesn’t think much of him anyway, he reminds himself, rolling his head back onto his pillow; he's just a replacement for somebody else, and likely not a good one at that.

“Enjoy your reading, _Yr Alban_ ,” he says, making sure he’s as distant as possible from Other-Scotland, and letting sleep take him over to the sound of fluttering papers and a noise that sounds entirely too dismissive.

* * *

 

**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 12:15 pm**   


 

He feels his annoyance start to groan underneath its own weight, buckling a little more as France analyses what’s inside Scotland’s fridge and deems it not good enough to cook anything with. Northern Ireland decides to take it as a personal slight against himself, Scotland, and cooking in general, but refuses to say anything because he’s invested in cleaning these dishes, following a boring grind of floor mopping while France obsessively took to cleaning kitchen counters and threatening to go give Scotland a good scolding for the utter filth he seems to live in while France isn’t around to pick up after him.

“Honestly,  _du Nord_ ,” France says, not really to Northern Ireland, but to himself, disguised as open commentary that can be argued with and responded to. “I really don’t know how anyone lives this way.”

Foolish game to say anything, Northern Ireland thinks – France can dismiss anyone and their valid arguments with one arch to his eyebrow, a single caustic noise or tilt of his head – yet he’s compelled by the little look from France that follows into opening his mouth.

“We do just fine,” Northern Ireland hisses. He's unsure if the silence that follows is France taking exception to his resentful tone or simply ignoring him.

He sets the last of the pans onto the draining board to dry and chances a look towards France, but he’s apparently just ignoring Northern Ireland in favour of picking at the food items stored in Scotland’s fridge.

“I’ll just have to get _Ecosse_ or _Irlande_ to pick something up," France says to himself, not noticing when Northern Ireland wanders over while drying his hands on a tea towel to have a peek.

He sees meat and cheese in the fridge, as well as some eggs and butter, milk and bacon and all the other usual bits of tat Scotland leaves lying around, and a massive scoff overtakes him.

“What kind of chef are you supposed to be if you can’t cook with basic ingredients?” he challenges.

France eyes him curiously, a look of dawning offence taking him over, though Northern Ireland forces himself to ignore it in favour of pitching the cupboard open. He's graced by the sight of potatoes, a packet of gravy granules, an onion, Heinz sauces, tins of peas (for England and Ireland no doubt), baked beans and a loaf of bread. He can only imagine that Scotland had expected them to cook together before all this nonsense came up.

And he feels a simmering rage weigh his eyebrows down and pull his mouth into a snarl at that thought, hand tightening on the cupboard door, because he’s stuck with France instead. He can’t help shooting the blond a particularly nasty glare.

“There’s plenty in here to make something,” he says sharply. He could even make it himself if he wasn’t sure that France wouldn’t let him.

“And what do you propose I could make with this?” France asks, poking at the meat and wincing at how cheap it is.

“Duh, shepherds pie,” Northern Ireland grumbles. “Or baked potatoes, omelette. Anything you fucking want.”

France purses his lips before striding over and eyeing Northern Ireland carefully.

The teenager almost feels a derisory scolding coming along that might just push him too far and force him to see how badly he can hurt France before Scotland can stride in here and smack him around the head for it.

France doesn’t scold him, however, he simply pats Northern Ireland on the shoulder and leans down to press a kiss to his forehead. “You’re so cute, North,” he coos, before sweeping his hands through Northern Ireland's already badly treated curls, readjusting the lay of them and striding away to study how clean the pans currently are.

Northern Ireland flushes deeply and gives his forehead a hard scrub with the back of his hand, the affection acting to destroy the anger he’d been storing up in a hope he could lose his temper in an impressive fashion and make everyone pay for treating him like an expendable, useless child.

“We shall do as you suggest then,” France says with a cheerful flourish, apparently deciding that the pans are up to his exacting standards. “A shepherd's pie should please everyone.”

“You’re serious?” Northern Ireland asks, somehow it wasn’t what he expected at all.

“ _Oui_ ,” France says. “ _Irlande_ never eats anything I make for him usually, perhaps something closer to home will be more satisfying for him.”

“When do you ever –” Northern Ireland almost finishes that question, but then decides he’s not even interested. It might reveal more about what Ireland and France _do_ when alone together, and he doesn’t think he can handle being given such information. He’d likely have to tell Scotland at some point in the near future if he was.

While it might be nice to have him be pissed off at France for once in his fucking life, Northern Ireland can’t stomach the idea. His family dynamic is too rocky right now as it is, with England wanting him to try and not be an arse to the Republic of Ireland when they’re together.

Ireland seems intent on not helping matters in the slightest.

“Fine. Whatever,” Northern Ireland says, shutting the cupboard door and eyeing the corridor, wondering exactly what his brothers could possibly be talking about and how they can even hope to have a family meeting without _him_ , the bastards.

Maybe they’re thinking of ways to get rid of him? It wouldn’t surprise Northern Ireland if they were. Well, they can fucking try; he’ll not leave without putting up a hell of a fight!

“Do you think you can peel potatoes without cutting yourself?” France asks suddenly, his nose buried in a cookbook that usually lives in Scotland’s side cupboard, full of easy recipes.

“What age do you think I am?” Northern Ireland grumbles, already moving to pick out the potato peeler from Scotland’s kitchen drawer and lifting a pan large enough to house a decent number of potatoes. He gets to work filling it with cold water and setting it beside the sink. “Fuck's sake.”

“Really, _du Nord_ ,” France says with a faintly scolding tone. “I wish you wouldn’t swear.”

Northern Ireland sighs and starts filling the kettle so he can at least have hot water on hand when he needs it. He rolls every smartarse retort he can think of to that request, including telling France to shove it up his arse, go fuck himself and wise the fuck up, but all he manages is a single strangled, “Sorry,” before he moves to pull the bag of potatoes from where they live at the base of the cupboard and sets to work.

He winces slightly when the sharp edge of the peeler catches his skin, causing a trail of blood to pour along the edge of his finger. The harsh intake of air he makes seems to get France's attention, as he pauses in making his pastry, having found a collection of apples tucked away in Scotland’s fruit bowl and various bits of baking clutter from Northern Ireland's own experiments a good number of weeks ago.

He’d made a chocolate and orange tart with popping candy. His finest creation, and plans on adding a meringue top next time to see what will happen.

But France insisted that apples were better than melted chocolate, perhaps because the chocolate on offer had been a Toblerone left over from Northern Ireland's Christmas edibles, brought with him for snacking and perhaps experimentation with a new recipe had Scotland given him the freedom of the kitchen.

“Did you cut yourself?” France asks, he sounds distinctly uninterested, but with an edge of cooing sentimentality that suggests he might find Northern Ireland's clumsy little fingers and childlike incompetence when it comes to anything that doesn’t involve a hammer and nails or a tin opener rather charming.

“No,” Northern Ireland lies, popping his hand underneath the flowing cold water. It’s chilled to near freezing and brings tears to Northern Ireland's eyes because it feels like the stream is literally ripping flesh from bone.

Scotland really should get his plumbing fixed.

“Oh, North,” France mourns, though he seems to be right beside Northern Ireland now, and how he got there from the other side of the kitchen is a wonder, as is the question of how his hands are so flour covered yet the rest of him remains spotless.

Northern Ireland's managed to get a small stain on his favourite T-shirt and all he’s done is peel a few spuds. He’s not sure it’s not a stain that’s just lived there for a while, picked out by his eyes after what could be a year of it first appearing, or if he’s just so clumsy that he’s managed to find a way to make potato starch defy gravity and cling to his clothing.

“There’s really no need to cry, it’s a tiny scratch,” France says, making Northern Ireland aware of how a tiny dribble of a tear is lurching down his face. It forces him to pull his hand out from under the cold water and wipe his cheek with his dry palm.

His whole arm has gone numb from the inexplicably low temperature, but the blood has stopped flowing, which is a plus.

“I’m not crying,” Northern Ireland protests, though France merely takes a hold of his hand and gets to work putting a bright blue plaster around his finger after wiping his hands down on a clean tea towel. “And I don’t need a bandage. It’s not even bleeding!”

“I don’t want open wounds near the food,” France says, sliding his hands away from Northern Ireland's cold, thick fingers.

Northern Ireland finds he misses the warmth that France had supplied and feels himself frown. “Whatever. What are you even doing?”

“Making pastry,” France says – though Northern Ireland had guessed that – easing himself away from the teenager with a sort of delayed impatience, leaving Northern Ireland feeling a little lost about whether he should carry on talking or get back to work silently.

He wants to be with his brothers, but he’s learned over the years that when they say they don’t want him interfering in their business, they mean it, and interrupting could lead to stony silence or a good old fashioned ear chewing and a swift smack.

And Scotland had called him a _wean_. Scotland’s never called him a _wean_ before.

In fact, he’s been acting sort of off since they all arrived; like he didn’t even know who Northern Ireland was, and he'd lacked that fond little glint in his eye that Scotland reserves for _him_. Not that Northern Ireland really noticed nor cares about that sort of thing, he was merely being observant.

He begins to wonder if perhaps he’s managed to do something wrong, something that he’s not even aware that might have put Scotland off him. Maybe that’s what his brothers are talking about?

They seemed fine over Christmas. Even got a game of cards in without too much of a fight – gambling with each other using cheap sweets England and Wales had got at the local Lidl – although they had had a massive argument over which Christmas film they all wanted to watch afterwards.

They’d eventually agreed to watch a Muppets Christmas Carol because they all like the Muppets, then England and Wales had fallen asleep beside each other and Scotland and Northern Ireland had eaten all the cheap fruit chews and rearranged the two into a suggestive position before they’d put the fire on and toasted bread rolls to make warm turkey sandwiches, and –

He can’t remember doing anything bad other than idly falling asleep curled up under Scotland’s arm and waking up to the sound of England and Scotland having a falling out over where the leftover turkey had gone.

“North, those potatoes aren’t going to peel themselves,” France snaps, losing all his friendliness and sentimentality in the face of keeping things efficient, “and try not to cut yourself again.”

“Sure.” Northern Ireland drags his feet back to the sink, lifting the potato peeler and the half peeled spud he’d been working on, muttering under his breath as he carries on, “Not like I have anything better to do anyway.”

 

 

* * *

 

In his dream -  the same dream he’s had on and off since his annexation - he finds himself slowly changing. Hair ebbing towards blondness, eyes becoming green and sharp, consumed from the inside out and warped into something horrible before being absorbed into the fabric of England’s being. Eaten whole and becoming lost, consciousness torn to shreds and rebuilt in tiny fragments into England.

His culture lost, his people forgetting.

Until even the fragments of what he was are buried so deep that they’re of no relevance.

And it’s a sickening dream, because he enjoys that sense of loss as much as he’s openly reviled by it. However, the dream changes this time, there’s no overbearing hand gripping his hair, beating him so hard that the pain is all he has left to cling to, making him stronger and more resilient.

Without it his body merely decays.

He misses that pain.

“Time to get up,” a voice reminds him, echoing through the cavern of his mind, reassembling his broken, half-dead body, stirring a memory of beatings and bullying. Fortifying him and easing him to his feet though he knows his misshapen legs should ache. “Your brothers need your help with the spell.”

His brothers.

The creatures that might well consume him.

He remembers those.

Brown eyes return in a flourish, yet feeling heavy as he becomes aware of a tightness on his shoulder that he struggles to remove. It seems more real than the insubstantial pain from before, more threatening. A rough shake forces his eyes to open, hoping it might be England, that he’s not gone and eaten him alive again.

Instead he locks eyes with blue ones, red hair spiked out, and Wales feels the heat that his body had drain away and he makes an instinctive bid to slide away, hindered by the restraining blue sheets and Scotland’s arm. Too close to Wales’ neck, posed to start strangling and crushing the life from him.

All helpless cries turn to nothing but pathetic burbles. He doesn’t want to die, or get beaten up or glared at.

Scotland, however, only looks like he might start trying to slide him off the bed, not shouting at him for taking up residence in it or overreacting about being woken. Wales takes in a few breaths that cause his chest to heave, brushing his forehead with his hand. The temperature is normal.

His brothers need him for the spell, his subconscious mind reminds him. The spell to get Scotland back.

The thought is a bizarre one, rekindled by a surge of foreign magic, lapping at his whole body, throwing it off balance. He glances back to Scotland, and still sees his brother, but it’s different and foreign and brings a heat to his cheeks that he can easily blame on his warm sleep.

“How long was I sleeping?” he asks, suddenly feeling disorientated, too much information being fed to his mind, too much insanity to remember.

“Jesus, I don't know,” Other-Scotland says, short and blunt enough to convince Wales that the whole other dimension thing is merely his brother's idea of a stupid joke. “I wasn't timing you or anything. It's nearly one o'clock, anyway.”

When the usually required dig to his shoulder and pronouncement that he move his arse fails to come, Wales forces himself to relax, his breath settling with a forced huff. Other-Scotland is looming slightly, but somehow he seems less terrifying; not unthreatening but… something about his posture makes him seem smaller and Wales is thankful, as he throws the bed covers off, that he’s not being supplied small children like he was in the nineteen twenties.

He distracts himself from Scotland’s form by leaning down and picking out his comb from his bag easing it through the tangles his hair now clumps into and he fishes his shoes over so he can slip his feet into them.

Scotland’s floors are probably filthy, years of hiking grot mashed in there. The germophobe in Wales shudders at the thought.

“Then I guess it's time we got you home,” he says, to show he has some recollection of what’s happening. His hair grips his comb and refuses to let it budge even as he stands up, though why he expected to get any extra leverage from it at all is a mystery.

This mess will take a lifetime to unknot and Wales suddenly fears he’s taking too long, annoying Other-Scotland and he chances a quick look into the man's eyes, he looks impatient and Wales immediately starts moving, to hopefully avoid all tempers and get to work being more helpful.

“Don't you want your tea first?” Other-Scotland calls after him, his feet still heavy on the floor.

Wales slows and turns to look at the gift he’s being given, blinking in confused surprise as he sees the mug in Other-Scotland's hand. Scotland isn’t exactly the type to make anyone tea and take it to them; he’ll make it for you if he feels generous, but it's best to be prepared to go get it.  Plus the expression his other-brother wears is one of confusion, and Wales assumes that it’s caused by him running away.

“I…” Wales croaks out, hand easing itself around the warm mug, bringing a hint of a smile over his features. He’s honestly touched, as he always is, when shown even the bare minimum of kindness. “Thank you.” The words bubble out of him so desperately that he suspects he sounds a little overenthusiastic about what is essentially a cup of hot water.

“Thank Ireland; he made it, I just carried it,” Other-Scotland says with a shrug of his massive shoulders and a dismissive tilt to his head, as if he disapproves of Wales’ entire demeanour. Wales nods along though, feeling himself flush a little more at the idea of his brother taking the effort to send Other-Scotland up with some tea, not encouraging him to throw him from the bed. One should be thankful for such small favours.

Other-Scotland suddenly takes off down the stairs like his arse has been set alight. “Come on, then; apparently the... earth sign is all wrong or some such?”

Wales takes off after him in that inbuilt way he always does to keep up, yet trying not to spill his tea and carrying on trying to ease his comb through his fine hair.

“I should have known,” Wales says, trotting to the bottom of the stairs and watching Other-Scotland make his way towards the sitting room. “I hope they weren't causing you any problems. They're a little argumentative,” he throws in apologetically, because he's heard tales of Ireland and England bringing entire world meetings to a halt by choosing to dive over tables at one another. He doubts having Other-Scotland around will have improved their manners a single bit.

“I'm used to it. Mine aren't any better,” Other-Scotland says, disappearing into the living room, leaving Wales to imagine that he perhaps has truly had enough of them. It was nice having Scotland pay attention to him without pointing out constantly that he’s soft, useless, annoying or whiny, even though it wasn’t really his brother in there.

How Other-Scotland can even really tell the difference between things if they’re so similar rises in Wales’ mind like well cooked bread, falling to nothing with thoughts of the mysterious Other-Wales. He's undecided about how similar they must be to one another because Other-Scotland never shut up about him, and yet still had the nerve to call him a useless bastard.

He chooses not to dwell on it for the moment, because he’s never going to meet Other-Wales, even if his existence is intriguing and gives Wales a strange warm feeling that he’s perhaps not the only soppy useless bastard in existence as he drifts into the living room, sipping his tea and casually pushing his hair behind his ear.

“There you are, Wales,” England’s voice chimes, like the grandfather clock that lives in his old house, barely looking up from the paper he’s drawing on.

Wales perks up on hearing him. He knows exactly where he stands with England, and his presence helps to fortify Wales in a way that makes his legs feel stronger.

“Feeling better I trust?” Ireland asks, peeking up from his sheet of paper.

Wales can’t help the gentle smirk that drifts over his features at the way his brothers sit with their legs crossed at the same awkward angle, making their knees jut out. Ireland looks especially awkward, his legs being so long.

They likely don’t even notice the fact they have such a similarity and Wales hates to point it out, in case one of them should stop.

“Much, thank you,” Wales assures him, earning a smile from Ireland as Wales becomes aware of Other-Scotland having a quick poke at one of the fossils left on Scotland’s hearth, as if it’s in the place of something very important. "Scotland said you were having some trouble with the earth sign again, _Lloegr_.”

England peers up from the paper finally, his expression is flat and with the same hint of annoyance that always worms its way onto his face. He waves his pen through the air, head tipping back, making him look rather snobbish and haughty to Wales’ eyes. “Ireland simply has no appreciation for a little added flair,” England assures him, like Wales will obviously agree with the sentiment because England is the one making it.

“Shut up before you even start.” Ireland hisses, causing England to bristle and give Ireland a spiteful little glare that’s followed by a sharp tut. “You've always been too showy at this kind of thing.”

Wales thinks such a claim might be a bit rich coming from a man who does the fanciest calligraphy Wales has ever seen, and sometimes scrawls it over his legal documents when he gets bored at meetings.

“Let me see,” Wales says, quickly cutting England off before he can voice so much as the smallest hint of a protest. He simply steps over and starts to look over the sheets of paper scattered about on the sofa between the pair.

England’s cleansing circles have the same showy finesse Wales might have expected, beautifully designed, with intricate swirls and runes cut into the borders of some, beautifully rendered suns and moons, and one with a particularly insensitive drawing of Ireland that makes him resemble a giraffe after having its testicles chopped off.

Charming.

Ireland's designs are equally nice, but simpler and more geometric, a spell cut into the outside of one circle in what looks to Wales like Ogham, except that when he makes a very basic translation of the exact words being written out, he picks out the phrase, ‘England is so fucking stupid, he can’t remember how to read this shit, isn’t that right, Wales’.

Wales frowns at him, doubling it when he unearths some horrid little doodles of England that suggest he might be a massive cry-baby with no bladder control.

He refocuses his attention on England’s customised sigils, drawn down the side of the sheet he was working on last, and done with such incredible attention to detail that Wales is slightly spellbound.

“This fire sign is…” he starts out, because the sign is gloriously beautiful, and he’s happy England felt the need to be so generous, but it’s hardly a resemblance to the one Wales uses and believes to be his own. Yet he knows that he has to tread carefully, because England is a moody sod. “It's not really very –”

“It’s vulgar is what he’s saying.” Ireland finishes for him suddenly, pausing to watch as Other-Scotland snorts slightly at the comment and gets to work poking at a lump of driftwood.

“I’ll have you know I took great care with them!” England barks back, his pride now wounded and his good intentions feeling snubbed and unappreciated. It’s all Wales can do to hold up his hands and make a move to get himself between the pair with a cautious shuffle forward.

“And it's very nice!” he pleads, though England hardly looks appeased, and glowers at him like the word ‘nice’ is somehow an insult. “But it's nothing like how I draw it at all. Plus, you've drawn the water sign like…” Wales suddenly remembers again that his brother really is gone, that this symbol in his brother's name is useless, means nothing and will do nothing. He turns his attention to Other-Scotland, "Does your magic happen to source from water?” Wales asks, watching Other-Scotland look to him slowly, his mouth opening to answer before it clicks shut.

“I have absolutely no idea," he replies finally with a small shrug. “This isn't really anything like the magic me and my family use. That's more names and resonance, less of the squiggly things.” He then waggles his finger about, apparently to make some reference to their way of doing things.

Wales bites back the need he feels to start explaining that there’s more to their magic than ‘squiggles’ that it’s all very complicated, learned and refined from years and years of study, combining all their magic into a steady stream that flows in complete and utter balance.

He doesn’t though, because he’s certain the man isn’t remotely interested, even though Wales senses England and Ireland perking up with interest at how the other UK from across time and space might use magic. Why they never thought to ask is beyond him; the stubborn twats.

“I was afraid of that” Wales says hesitantly, setting his comb aside in order that he can bite his fingernails and frown at the floor. Other-Scotland's magic seems like it’s close enough to his brother's that it could source from water. But close enough isn’t cutting it and without a firm belief then it counts for nothing but shit.

“We can't do the spell properly if that's not this Scotland's magical signature,” Wales tells his brothers, relieving them of a single scrap of blank paper and robbing England’s pen. “Do you have any written signs you'd use? A symbol or rune? Something that's personal to you and that you associate with... yourself,” he asks Other-Scotland, holding the paper out to him, filling with hope that perhaps some compromise can be reached.

Other-Scotland looks slightly suspicious at first before he takes the pen and paper.

“Anything will do, so long as you have faith in it,” Wales adds, trying to sound as honest as he feels.

“We just use our names; all of them if we can. The older ones and the ones the fae gave us are the most powerful,” Other-Scotland says, and Wales feels a certain shared sentiment, though altered and shifted, changed beyond recognition but still an inherent truth and he watches with interest as Scotland, Other-Scotland, gets to work writing. Wales can practically feel the magic roll from pen to paper, sense the apprehension, and it causes his own magic to draw him down slightly, till Other-Scotland's pulse swamps around his ankles.

Then the paper is handed back to him, and Wales takes it, passing his eyes over it, aware of Other-Scotland shifting about anxiously as he does so. “I'll have to have it back once you've finished with it, you ken, so I can destroy it properly,” he says as he rakes a hand roughly through his hair and lets out a nervous laugh. “This is dangerous stuff for me; even my sister doesn't know all of these.”

Wales nods, letting his eyes drop to the sheet of paper, he feels suddenly rather intrusive, like he’s staring at something no other creature has ever seen before. He hates the position it puts him in, but feels convinced that not even Ireland or England should see this paper, because it’s valuable, and the fewer eyes that see it, the better.

"Of course, we'd never –” he starts off, to assure Other-Scotland that fair treatment and respect are the very basis on which Wales and his family work, but he finds himself incapable of finishing the sentence, distracted as he is by a very striking omission from this sheet of paper.

A name he feels himself hunt out and scour for at least three times, until he’s too transfixed to think of anything else. His own brother's name, the most important one that Wales knows about, is omitted, though there are names in Ogham, so old that Wales doesn’t recognise them, and the list ends in a single solitary rune.

Yet the name Dal Riada isn’t there, a name Wales knows his own Scotland to own, to share with Ireland, binding them together and turning what had once been one whole, into two. Proof positive that things between both these worlds are very different, and he wonders then if it’s possible for Other-Wales to be one of the other old kingdoms besides Dyfed, for their England to have grown from the seed of anything but Mercia. What if their Northern Ireland, if they even have one, is simply old Ulster, renamed and older than the rest? He knows that they themselves are older than that, too, but it’s those names that have stayed with them.

“Are you alright, Wales?” Wales hears Ireland ask cautiously, shifting about on his rear awkwardly as it seems Wales has been staring too long and too hard.

“Yes,” Wales responds, much too quickly, before looking back to Other-Scotland, who seems like he’d been growing annoyed by the wait, or perhaps merely feelings defensive over his names. Wales hardly blames him for that. “Would you be okay using this on our circle?” he asks, holding the sheet up, taking special care that his fingers don’t so much as brush the ink, and he motions to a single, rune on the bottom of the page, one that resembles the sort his own family would use. “You can draw it out yourself if it would make you feel more comfortable.”

Wales motions to the area on the spell casting circle where Scotland’s Water sign usually lives, on the same side as Ireland's Earth sign, and across from Wales’ fire sign.

Other-Scotland drinks this in, eyeing the paper, apparently not really getting it, but accepting it as a way to get home and resolving himself to it. “Aye, that's fine. It'll burn itself out when it's used up, anyway. And I will, if that's not going to cause any problems with your spell, because the binding will be tighter if I draw it myself.” he says, mouth curling up at the corner in the way Wales remembers his own brother smiling.

He suddenly, bizarrely, misses him immensely.

“It's the only rune I can get right every time, so it shouldn't unbalance anything,” Other-Scotland adds.

“Wonderful,” Wales coos, because it’s exactly what he wanted to hear, balance and belief in his own sign. Two key ingredients. “I think it would be better if we ALL drew out our own signs anyway. Don't you think so, Lloegr? The sense of trust we put into them will make all the difference.” He glances towards England, who looks so long-suffering and disheartened that Wales isn’t sure if he wants to hit him or offer him some comfort.

“Honestly, Wales, I think you're being very paranoid. A little intricacy won't hurt either of your sorry sigils,” England says dismissively, with a waft of his hand that makes Ireland glare at him, though he remains silent.

“This is a very powerful spell we're taking about here. If we don't do it right anything could happen. Best to err on the side of caution,” Wales tells him, managing to evoke a look of horror from England, his eyes darting to Other-Scotland, who is watching their interaction with a hint of disinterest.

Wales assumes that what England is thinking, is that looking bad in front of some other Scotland, some other member of the UK, where it can trickle into the ears of some other England, is the single most appalling thing that could happen.

“When have I ever done a spell incorrectly?” England hisses, eyes narrowed on Wales, ready to fight him tooth and claw for every shred of dignity he can get.

Sadly for England, Ireland is quick to chime in with: “You turned yourself into a woman that one time.”

His wide, sinister smirk makes England start off looking incredulous before it drifts towards a certain breed of grumpiness reserved for being shown up.

“And you tried to trap my Leprechaun, Smiley, but France broke your seal with his _feet_ because your spell was crap,” Ireland adds, sounding more accusing this time.

“Neither of those were my fault.”

They were actually, from what Wales remembers. It's best not to argue, though.

He only gets to work working through England and Ireland's set ups, taking little bits from each and piecing them together into a spell that’s simple, delicately balanced and still attractive. Magic has always reminded Wales of music somehow.

He hands Other-Scotland back his name sheet. “Thank you,” he says graciously. He feels strangely well trusted, though he thinks he shouldn’t, and he can only redirect his whimsical smile back towards his drawing to mask it.

“So, when does the salt get involved, then?” Other-Scotland asks, folding his paper up and slipping it into his pocket.

“This spell is pretty powerful, so we’ll need to draw that,” Ireland starts out, motioning to the paper in Wales’ hand. “On a big enough palette,” he finishes, uncrossing his legs.

“So we're going to use the floor,” England says, swigging a little of his tea before casting his eyes to the floor, wrinkling his nose up at it, doubtless sensing dirt and residual magic all over the place. “Not unlike the spells you were casting earlier, I assume.”

“All we need to do is grab the tub of salt from Scotland's kitchen and we should be more than ready to get to work on this,” Wales says, nodding to himself, as he watches Ireland stand up and pat Other-Scotland affectionately on the shoulder in a bid to be friendly.

“I'll make us all some tea and pick it up, then we can get you and our brother back where you both belong,” Ireland says with a smile that looks to plenty reassuring to Wales.

“They can keep our Scotland,” England barks, folding his arms and scowling at the wall like it’s done him some terrible wrong. “We're better off without him,” he throws in, just to prove how much he doesn’t want their brother back, though Wales sees concern curl his eyebrow and cast a sad glint to his eyes.

“Would you like a hand with the tea?” Other-Scotland asks suddenly, and Wales looks at him in time to see his fingers curl into aggressive fists, like he might beat the snot out of England if tempted. Wales would rather he didn’t, as Wales would have to defend the little arse.

“Aye, you may as well,” Ireland says, his voice dropping and eyes wandering to England in warning, allowing Wales the knowledge that England is so close to a massive beating that he should be able to taste his own blood. “You two see if you can't get that sorted out.” Ireland looks between his little brothers in a stern way that suggests they had better do as he says.

Wales idly hands England the sheet of paper, to see if he thinks it’s passable and to distract him from saying another word.

“I’ll start by giving this floor a decent clean, shall I?” England quips, and Wales deems that a good idea, but cannot express as such because his eyes widen at the sight of England taking a pen to his design, editing it in a way he knows cannot possibly be good. “Utterly filthy.”

A hand has never moved as quickly as the way Wales moves his, snatching the paper from England's grasp and not allowing him to do any further damage. His eyes widen however, when he sees that England’s already figured out the exact blocking spell he needs to add to this set up so that they can’t get their own Scotland back.

He’d almost forgotten that when it comes to pure knowledge on magic, England is practically unrivalled. The fact he’d have the utter nerve to attempt it, though, leads Wales to glower at him with such unrivalled bitterness that it fogs up the room and spurs Ireland into starting to move away, motioning for Other-Scotland to follow along.

“Come on then, you can help me keep North in check, at least,” Ireland says, his annoyance unmasked.

Wales turns his attention back to his little brother, lowering his voice so they can at least argue in private. “Honestly, England, you're being incredibly insensitive,” he reprimands.

“You should be glad I choose to help at _all_. One Scotland is as good as another,” England says, his expression stuffy and heavy with pride. Pride in the fact that he hates Scotland and that getting rid of him for good wouldn’t bother him. His expression grows contemptuous and doesn’t flinch when he makes eye contact with Wales. “This one seems like an improvement besides,” he finishes, making Wales flinch with past memories of having had a similar thought.

The contempt that overtakes Wales’ face then is likely directed more at himself than England, but his tone becomes sharp enough that he at least seems genuinely put out by his brother and his intentions. “You're a rotten bastard at times. We're supposed to be helping Scotland and you're –”

“I am helping the other Scotland,” England clarifies, his arms folding over his chest, glaring back at Wales and making him feel defensive and slightly paranoid. “What happens to our own is not my concern.”

Wales lashes out at England before he can stop himself, thumping him on the shoulder, offering him a much more aggressive scowl that turns his eyes into dark clouds, and his voice lowers to a rumble. “Just go get the fucking Hoover before I lose my patience entirely!”

“I don't give two shits whether you _want_ your Scotland back or not,” Other-Scotland barks from behind Wales’ back, and Wales feels himself pale at the voice. A glance over proves to be a bad idea, as Other-Scotland now resembles their brother almost completely: face of thunder, posture tight and ready to spring, teeth bared. “But I want to get home in one piece and as soon as possible, and he deserves to be back where he belongs, too. You'd better not mess this up, deliberately or otherwise, or else…”

The threat peters out, ringing hollow and causing England to look merely rather disaffected, cautious only of the Scotland in his midst. He seems confident enough, however, that he’s in no danger of a good pummelling. He senses his own underlying power in the situation and Wales hates him for it.

“If he does I'll endeavour to move back in with him and make his life an unfathomable hell,” Ireland warns, which gets England attention, his bitter face growing steely and accepting that challenge much too easily.

“We'll cross that bridge when we get to it, shall we?” England chirps back, standing proud and resilient.

“I’ll keep an eye on him you two, don't worry,” Wales breathes out, because the mood in the room is overwhelming and a massive fight seems imminent regardless. He even hears the mourning tone of his own voice, and thinks it very fitting considering that England will be dead soon.

“I don't need supervision, Wales. I am not a child!” England hisses at him, standing up so he can make himself taller and more imposing.

“Then stop acting like one,“ Wales narrows his eyes, exchanging a glare with his little brother, feeling all his nerves spark and crackle, yet refusing to buckle and eventually England’s eyes drift downwards, lacking the energy and patience he’d need to drill Wales into the ground. Which he could if he felt more inclined.

“Okay, you make sure you do that, then," Other-Scotland says, sounding to Wales like he’s been deemed trustworthy enough for the task, and he starts moving away, eyeing England the entire time like a hungry animal. An animal hungry for vengeance.

It makes Wales very nervous because England returns that look without a hint of fear on his face, looking only irritated at being stared at.

The aggressive sounding, “Fucking wanker,” from Ireland as the pair storm out of the room lets Wales know that he’s likely saved England’s teeth, at least.

“May I ask what that was about?” England enquires under his breath, looking to Wales like he’s some vile betrayer.

“You're as worried about Scotland as I am, and acting like a tosser isn't helping anyone,” Wales says gently.

“I'm not worried about Scotland,” England snarls, puffing himself back into his imposing posture at the very idea, his shoulders arching and face growing stormy.

“Of course you're not, _Lloegr_ ,” Wales says, ignoring the sentiment he hears in England’s voice that perhaps Wales feels no more concerned for their brother's well-being than England. But Wales diverts his attention towards smiling at his brother and easing towards him, adjusting his tie, and offering him a sympathetic frown that drifts towards a pleading smile. “But you know we can't do without him.”

“We could give it a bloody good go,” England says snidely, folding his arms and glancing away from Wales as he quietly finishes teasing England’s tie back into shape and brushing off his shoulders, gripping them gently because he senses that perhaps England really is worried, and this is his way of expressing it and the desire to hug him and let him know it’ll all be fine is as overwhelming as ever for Wales.

He can only bring himself to pat England’s shoulders gently and to offer him a bright, urging smile. “Enough,” he says, wiping a stray piece of fluff from the front of his brothers sweater vest, “I need to finish this and you said you were tidying up.”

England studies Wales for a long moment before his whole face softens, his scowl becoming little more than a soft frown as he makes his bid to walk away.

Wales shakes his head and sighs. Sometimes he thinks he really IS too soft.

He wouldn’t have it any other way though, because sometimes it’s what England really needs.

 

  


* * *

  


**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 12:50 pm**

 

“What are you doing?” France spits out, he looks rather appalled by Northern Ireland's handling of the meat and onion, though to Northern Ireland's mind, adding a dry Oxo cube and a squeeze of brown sauce to the mix makes it taste better. “That’s disgusting,” he adds, shooing the youngster aside and poking the mix with a wooden spoon.

All his efforts of chopping onion seem wasted now!

“But it’s how Scotland and I always make it,” Northern Ireland argues, pulling out a box of baking powder and mixing it into the glass of water he’s holding before dumping the mixture in with his meat, pouring in his Oxo cube mix and adjusting the temperature to a mild simmer.

France screws his face up. He’s always shown nothing but utter abhorrence for the manner in which Northern Ireland cooks – a blend of knowing what works, and making things up as he goes – but he’s also eaten bits and pieces of it as well, meaning it can’t always be _vile_.

“You really should learn to cook properly,” France states, getting back to work on his dessert after impatiently shooing Northern Ireland aside again lest the water in there catch fire or something.

“You mean like, follow the recipes and do what some chef tells me?”

“Exactly, _du Nord_ ,” France says, eyeing the meat like it’s been completely defiled. “You two might actually make something half decent if you followed a recipe.”

“That’s boring. And the way Scotland and I cook is just fine!” he snarls, making a bid to defend his big brother with all the tooth and nails he can summon. Though he bites back the impulsive hiss of ‘not that you’d know, because you’re never fucking here!’ because to be honest, he doesn’t really like having France around, turning all of Scotland’s affections cock side up, leaving Northern Ireland to wander around the house feeling like he’s little more than in the way and getting on Scotland’s nerves.

He’s also learned over the years that there’s simply no fighting it, and he’s tried his fucking hardest to worm his way into Scotland’s good books enough to know that when France comes into the picture, everyone else gets locked out.  
      
Northern Ireland only snaps out of it when France hands him a glass with a measure of red wine in it and smiles at him. It serves to bring a tinge of heat to his cheeks.

“What’s this for?"

“Add it to your meat, it might make it somewhat passable,” France says, chuckling when Northern Ireland takes a small swig of it instead of doing as he’s told.

Northern Ireland watches as France gets back to work, chopping his apples up and measuring out sugar and getting to work whipping at cream and he feels his face flush afresh at the offering, eyes dropping to the glass of red wine in his hand giving it a swirl, chancing a small inhale of the fruity aroma before he carefully pours it into his meat and gravy mix, admiring how the whole thing just livens up.

The smell seems more delicious, the colour of the juices seems richer and the taste of the wine lingers on the back of Northern Ireland's throat, warming him up from the inside out.

 

 

* * *

 

Northern Ireland’s now been set to work sitting at the table to watch as France adjusts the mashed potato. Why France won’t let him do it himself is a mystery, though he seems to be taking longer with the task than the usual adding of butter and attacking it with a masher. When Northern Ireland does chance rising from his seat he’s graced with the sight of the most glorious looking mash he’s ever seen, however; a sort of creamy white paste, one that France ices onto the meat mixture Northern Ireland had been preparing before having his job changed to cleaning again as France lost patience with him.

“How did you do that?” Northern Ireland asks, lifting the bowl as France eases delicate little patterns onto the top of the pie with a fork.

Northern Ireland takes a small sample of France's recipe on his finger and licks it off. It’s delicious.

“North, that’s disgusting,” France barks, taking the bowl off him and setting it in the sink.

“But I –” Northern Ireland argues, but he’s interrupted by the sound of Ireland and Scotland stalking into the room.

“Bloody wanker,” Ireland snorts, casting his eyes over his shoulder to direct annoyance at whoever chooses to exit the living room behind them.

Northern Ireland can only assume it's England.

“ _Irlande_. _Ecosse_ ,” France greets.

He looks rather pleased to see them, and makes a point of gently pushing Northern Ireland towards the sink and back to washing up, just as Ireland starts recycling the mugs Northern Ireland had already cleaned and left to dry by the sink. “I trust your little meeting is finally over?”

“No,” Ireland says, his voice cracking down the middle and making him sound slightly bad tempered. It causes France's face to flinch with a flutter of hurt feelings despite Northern Ireland being sure that Ireland acting like a total knob is nothing new.

Northern Ireland merely gives the bowl France left him in charge of a hasty wipe down before shoving it aside and scuttling over to Scotland and making a point to frown at him.

“What are you guys even talking about anyway?” he asks, studying Scotland carefully to see if maybe his mood is better. France seems curious, too, judging by how he pauses in approaching Ireland's slightly angular form and shifts his focus towards Scotland instead.

Scotland responds by looking immensely startled, which is unusual enough, Northern Ireland thinks, because Scotland doesn’t really startle easily, and if he does, he normally bounces back quickly and dishes out punishment for the insult.

“The thing is,” Scotland mumbles, glancing towards Ireland who’s no help whatsoever because his nose is deep in the act of making tea. “We were…”

“You were what?” Northern Ireland asks, his curiosity piqued if only because Scotland appears to have lapsed into a red-faced coma. Whatever they were talking about must be either very interesting or incredibly disturbing.

“Leave your brother alone, North!” Ireland snarls, making a point to glower at Northern Ireland, who endeavours to scowl right back before turning back to Scotland, the only person whose scolding really, truly matters (unless it’s England, of course). “I already told you it’s none of your business!”

“But you _said_ it was a family thing,” Northern Ireland argues, though Ireland looks even less appeased, making Northern Ireland more and more suspicious. “How am I suddenly not family anymore!” He turns his frown towards Scotland again, because really, Northern Ireland couldn't care less about what Ireland thinks of him.

“Scotland, hit him if you want. He's going to be a pest,” Ireland chimes, which sounds very odd again to Northern Ireland's ears.

Scotland always does as he pleases, he’s _never_ needed Ireland's permission to give him a scalp around the arse, and still doesn’t even today.

It’s all very bewildering.

“What?” Scotland says, sounding surprised. As if he’s reluctant to lash out. A welcome piece of news to be sure, but not at all like his older brother and Northern Ireland begins to worry that something might possibly be wrong. Then Scotland looks at him like he might be altogether too small to be smacking around before he glances off to the side.

“Naw, it’s okay,” he says, taking a deep breath that seems to act only as fuel to the reddening of his face, keeping it firmly in place as the struggle for what to say looms overhead.

“Look, we were just talking about..." Then his mouth closes, before immediately and impulsively opening again, and a bark of, “Sex,” erupts, causing a clatter of cutlery and ceramic from Ireland's end, because he’s obviously as surprised as Scotland is, judging by how they both cringe.

After recoiling slightly – because the subject of sex has since been ruined for him by England trying to teach him about it; he’d been terrified of hugs for a whole year – Northern Ireland’s eyes immediately scoot towards France, assuming the worst, before suddenly feeling even more confused.

“All four of you?” he asks.

He’s not sure his older brothers are even capable of saying the word sex to one another, with Wales being an exception, and only when drunk enough as to not give a shit who he tells about his more lurid behaviour.

“Sounds like a promising situation,” France says with a horrible sounding laugh, his eyes sweeping between Ireland and Scotland, like he might actually have some hope for this conversation.

Northern Ireland doesn’t really want to know.

“It wasn’t anything as bad as you’re thinking.” Ireland says, but if he’s trying to look reassuring about it, then he’s not doing very well, because he strains visibly to ignore France's little glances. “North, make yourself useful and get me the milk,” he adds; an obvious distraction as far as Northern Ireland is concerned.

The teenager complies, only to be distracted from his task when Scotland decides to carry on with a helpful sounding, “It wasn't about anyone in particular. Just, you know, in general.”

While Northern Ireland might have been willing to let sleeping dogs lie, he’s struck dumb by his own incredulousness, mouth dropping open as he lifts the milk from the fridge and swings it shut.

This still sounds terribly off to him.

So off that he thinks it’s bordering on being really, really creepy.

“Why the fuck were you talking about sex 'in general'?” he asks, handing the milk to Ireland, who takes it with a little too much fucking gusto, even while looking completely fucking gormless.

“I'm not telling you again that it's none of your business,” Ireland repeats, like it’s going to stop Northern Ireland from getting to the bottom of this, because it all stinks of them making shit up to avoid telling him they’re putting him up for adoption or something. “And stop making that face, it’s bloody creepy,” Irelands adds with a wince at how much Northern Ireland’s face looks like England's, and how sinister the whole illusion can be at times.

“I have to say,” France drawls, taking a few little steps towards Scotland, his voice lowered as he leans close, “I'm rather interested in what you were talking about myself, _Ecosse_.”

And just as Northern Ireland starts to seethe painfully over how he saw France stealing his big brother away coming, Scotland makes an uncharacteristic shuffle backwards.

“Well, it wasn't anything you haven't heard before, I'm sure. You'd probably think it was all pretty boring," Scotland assures, with a voice akin to a broken voice box in a charity shop teddy bear. His eyes flick towards the door, as if considering making a mad bid for escape instead of letting France just saunter off with him, forgetting everyone else in the process.

Scotland’s hands make a desperate grab for the countertop and Northern Ireland feels himself bore his eyes into Frances skull, wishing he could get him away from the house entirely. All his hopes for a Christmas season with family – and only family – dashed on the rocks of reality.

France sweeps himself a little closer to Scotland, the smile on his face becoming pure flirtation where it had been all charm, and he presses his hand dexterously to Scotland's chest, purring out a low, “Try me.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Scotland says, scrunching his eyes closed, hands going white from the strain of gripping the countertop. It just about makes Northern Ireland think Scotland really doesn’t want France to touch him, and his instinctive move to interfere only comes to a halt when one of Scotland's hands moves to France's wrist. Then he practically begs, “Please.”

“Perhaps we can have our own private meeting instead,” France whispers, though still loud enough that Northern Ireland can hear, and it sends him back a few steps, body tightening. There’s no fighting with France, and any attempts to do so will be stamped out.

“That sounds…” Scotland gasps out, tapering off to nothing, but it still sounds affirmative to Northern Ireland's ears.

He glares at the ground as Scotland's hand eases its way up France's arm to rest on his elbow. His mouth opening to make some protest about the way France and Scotland's bodies weave together a little closer, but it makes him only want to barge out of the room entirely, because Scotland might revoke his desire not to hit anyone.

He chances a look to Ireland, and wishes that he hadn’t, because his oldest brother is glaring at the pair, and Northern Ireland can only assume it’s rampant jealously on his part, considering how his jaw is set all out of joint.

“Maybe you and I should excuse ourselves,” France suggests, pressing a kiss to Scotland's lips and easing closer.

Ireland's entire attitude changes with that, and Northern Ireland shuffles aside to, hopefully, get out of the way if there’s any fighting to be had. He's tempted to go and get England and Wales to see if they can help, but knows that it’ll only make matters worse.

He hears Ireland clear his throat, loudly and obnoxiously. “As nice as that sounds for you both, we have a job to do, and there are children present.”

The usual dose of annoyance Northern Ireland might feel at being referred to as a child is gone, because it might serve him well in getting this whole strange show to stop.

“Your silly meeting can wait, _Irlande_ ,” France says with an annoyed frown before he casts a sultry little look back to Scotland, his voice shifting back to a perverted sounding tone. “Don’t you think so, _Ecosse_?”

The word ‘reacquainted’ rings in Northern Irelands ears, a word he’s heard too often in his life to be healthy.

“It’s important,” Scotland clarifies, though his hand moves traitorously towards France's neck, his skin aflame, and he barely sounds convinced of his own desire to skip out on whatever the fuck it was he’s supposed to be doing. “The meeting.”

Somehow the way Scotland’s holding himself looks physically painful: tight and reluctantly fighting his normal tendencies.

France ignores every bit of Scotland’s discomfort though, the bastard that he is, and only lets out a chuckle, running his finger in little circles on Scotland’s chest. “It can wait,” he repeats.

“No,” Ireland snaps, holding out his tea in a bid that Scotland take some notice, but he goes ignored by both parties, which seems to irritate him even more. “It can’t,” Ireland adds, if only to add some weight to his apparently lifeless dialogue.

It’s a tone Northern Ireland recognises, however; dropping deeper, rising in volume, and becoming dangerous.

“But…” Northern Ireland croaks out, to add to the plea that might keep France and Scotland separate. Otherwise he might not see his brother the rest of the time he’s here! “I thought we were making dinner.”

He gets ignored by his elders completely, however, because France grips Scotland’s arm and gives a soft, urging tug.

“Are you coming, _Ecosse_?” France coos, causing Scotland to apparently concede the fight he was attempting to put up, making only the most incoherent argument about the meeting being vitally important as France continues to lead him along, like a puppy on a leash.

Northern Ireland scowls at his feet. Scotland’s officially gone.

“Scotland…” Ireland warns, yet he sounding like he’s talking to somebody else entirely from the way he hisses it out, his expression darkened beyond recognition. It’s a tone of voice that Northern Ireland thinks is very stupid to ignore.

Upon abandoning his tea making, Ireland takes one long stride towards Scotland, hand falling heavy on the taller man's shoulder. “Scotland!” he repeats, earning a slightly irritated frown from France, who nevertheless looks like he might be enjoying it all somehow.

Scotland makes only the barest of acknowledgements, trying to shrug off the hand.

Northern Ireland is struck by how foolish a game his older brothers are paying, and wonders why Ireland is so adamant about Scotland not leaving with France when it’s something he’s done since time immemorial and why, consecutively, Scotland fails to recognise the bone chilling sound of Ireland's temper breaking and promising a firm smack to the gob.

Why France doesn’t work harder to stop the fight before it starts is another question, but Northern Ireland has never understood France, only found himself caught in a never-ending battle over how much he really likes him.

Ireland’s grip tightens and he sets to work forcing Scotland to turn and look at him. Where he might normally drive a fist into a face, he seems reluctant to do so, even as his expression screams bloody murder. Northern Ireland almost jumps to Scotland’s defence, but lacks the momentum.

“Snap out of it!” Ireland barks, earning a flinch from Northern Ireland, because he’s heard that tone only once before, but it’s been engraved tight into his memory, making him feel very much like the small child everyone thinks of him as, while France seems to have the good sense to look surprised too, eyes widening and expression faltering.

Scotland’s face twists itself, anger rising on his entire body in the same instinctive way  it usually does, but there's also an air of thoughtlessness that seems very unlike Scotland somehow, practically dismissive. “ _Èirinn_ ,” Scotland rumbles, almost growling the word.

Northern Ireland's never heard the term before, though it’s close enough to the usual _Éire_ that he supposes it might be Gaelic or some such. Not that Scotland ever uses those terms.

The small exchange of glances (something between two feral cats having a puffy little tiff and two rabid dogs snarling at one another over a scrap of meat) triggers a curling of hands into fists; Scotland's first, apparently more annoyed about being disturbed by Ireland, which isn’t surprising.

Ireland would normally just evacuate the room entirely when France and Scotland get together.

Scotland’s tone and his fist is the catalyst to Ireland's entire body easing itself into a fighting position: his legs spreading to improve balance, left fist turning into a gnarled bony lump, and concentration setting on his face like a well made mask.

That left fist drives itself into Scotland’s face with a speed and intensity that Northern Ireland doesn’t remember seeing for a good while.

Each move was well advertised, yet Scotland doesn’t respond with his usual rebuff. Instead that fist drives itself into Scotland’s nose; the cartilage making a sickening crunch as it gets violently displaced, causing a flood of blood to pour from Scotland’s nostril as his whole head gets lurched sideways.

There’s a fleeting look of surprise on Scotland’s face, followed by a swift swipe of his hand to wipe blood up, leaving a thick red trail and a continuing river of gore. It’s the laugh that escapes Scotland’s mouth however than causes France to edge away and Northern Ireland to feel more and more disengaged with his older brother, because it’s an eerie unamused creak of laughter.

The kind of chuckle Northern Ireland had assumed was reserved for serial killers.

“ _Blaigeard_.” The word that gets dragged roughly from Scotland’s mouth is akin to the remnants of a tattered flag catching on the wind, flapping with some morbid resolution and unable to stop itself.

France has taken his place by Northern Ireland now, apparently not willing to try and stop the scuffle.

It’s just as Northern Ireland almost steps forward to chastise Ireland for the punch – which seemed slightly underhanded to him – when Scotland's body rises, shoulders squaring off, as his posture reverts to its normal, proud state. Yet it carries with it all the warning signs of a punch that drives itself haphazardly into Ireland's jaw.

It doesn’t seem as powerful as usual, and Ireland seems to get more or less swatted aside instead of completely knocked on his arse. He pauses only to rub his jaw and take a cautionary shuffle away, eyebrows twitching with quiet, seething calculation.

“I’ll _blaigeard_ you, ya fookin’ wanker,” Ireland growls, having apparently not learned his lesson and willing to carry right on fighting.

His jaw looks like it’s been set ajar slightly, and Ireland's caught the exact area of Scotland’s nose that does the most damage – repeated trauma from what Northern Ireland understands – and it’s still leaking in a fairly constant stream, clumping up Scotland’s beard and causing drops of red rain to start showering the floor that Northern Ireland just fucking cleaned.

“Jesus Christ, Ireland! What the fuck are you doing?” Northern Ireland whimpers, preparing himself to lurch forward and put an end to the fighting before somebody gets hurt, because Scotland’s already bleeding and if they start to go at it, it’ll be like two vicious animals - a massive ginger bear fighting with a lanky arse tiger - and by that point they may be locked in mortal combat and no force on earth will be able to stop them till somebody’s not moving anymore.

The move he makes to stuff himself between his two big brothers is halted by France's hand gripping his shoulder and holding him firm. Northern Ireland could easily fight it off, but finds himself incapable of it. Mainly because of the stony hint of concern that comes from the other nation's: “Perhaps not a good idea, _mon petit_.”

There's a hint of confusion in his voice, as though he’s only just now started to think something just isn’t right about the entire fucking circus that has been Northern Ireland’s entire fucking day.

Ireland raises his fists, and Scotland grins; a sharp and angular flash of teeth that’s saturated in blood and looks far more delighted by the fight than it really should be. As if he’s never faced Ireland before and merely sees him as a fresh piece of meat to tenderise.

Like lightning – or perhaps a little slower, but not by much – Scotland darts forward, moving around Ireland's fists to grip his shoulder. He hooks a foot around the back of Ireland's spindly legs, making a move to either sweep them out from under him or to break them; whichever happens first, Northern Ireland supposes.

Ireland's eyes widen, body almost crumbling like cheese, and he only just manages to save himself the tumble with a well balanced twirl, arm swooping out to force Scotland’s grip away from his shoulder before his other fist swings out and drives itself square into the side of Scotland’s face. It doesn’t do as much damage this time, however, even if it allows Ireland to make a quick dart away. As he retreats, Scotland casually tilts his head and spits out a mouthful of blood, caused no doubt by teeth tearing the inside of his mouth open

It makes France hiss with disgust under his breath, and Northern Ireland considers hitting Scotland with the mop after this is over to see if he can’t litter the floor with his teeth.

Scotland and Ireland draw back further from each other, both set into that grim determined need to win that Northern Ireland has seen all too many times,

Another three punches from Ireland are each blocked by a Scotland who feints himself right with a gentle slope of his shoulder and a weave of his torso, before he pitches his left arm out; a massive muscular tree trunk gripping Ireland's neck so firmly that it seems like he might break it entirely.

The strangled noise Ireland makes soon departs into a calm soup ebbing away before Scotland can unbalance him further. He clasps his hands together and swings his elbow at Scotland's exposed chest, wriggling free only by the grace of god that he manages to wind Scotland. He then pulls away again, though Northern Ireland's beginning to think his usual speed advantage has been lost somewhat.

Scotland takes the chance to catch his breath, and the two men regard each other with the sort of suspicion one only truly gets when fighting with someone. They seem programmed to fight and brawl, and it makes Northern Ireland capable of believing the stories of Irish and Scottish giants beating the shit out of one another just for the sheer sake of it.

All they need are some massive rocks to hurl at one another and the illusion would be almost complete.

The whole thought process Scotland seems to go through next telegraphs itself to Northern Ireland – doubtless to Ireland too – who sees his shoulders drop like a snowplough, head dipping, before he lunges at Ireland, like a bull would throw itself at a matador.

Like any good matador, Ireland manages to elegantly sidestep the attack, and rather cartoonishly ease his leg out, snagging on Scotland’s and sending him completely off centre until he grabs Ireland's arm and attempts not to fall down, though the likelihood of Ireland supporting his weight is laughable as a concept.

It’d be a bit like a really tubby cat climbing up a particularly thin Christmas tree and taking the whole thing down in a lumbering arc.

And Ireland is almost pulled over, sliding across the floor with no grace whatsoever, only managing to stay vertical by sheer stubbornness of the spirit. He wrenches his arm free and then collides with a painful clatter into the kitchen counter that makes him visibly wince. He struggles forward to aim a hard beating as the back of Scotland’s skull as he tries to recover his balance, which seems lost to him through the length of his limbs.

Northern Ireland isn’t sure what causes him to shrugs France's arm off, be it the idea that Scotland shouldn't get his spine broken by Ireland's treacherously powerful arms – though if Ireland's arms are even capable of such a feat Northern Ireland doesn’t know, but they could be because Ireland's strength is something not to be sneered at regardless of his bony limbs – or the increasing annoyance he feels for having his hard work ruined. (This floor was spotless and now it’s awash with blood, spit and likely sweat and he’d rather keep piss and shit off the list.) Or even if it’s the fact that Ireland almost ruined the food he and France were making, which would be a crime unto itself because France's potato is amazingly tasty and the apple tart thing he was preparing promised to be even better.

Regardless of that he steps into the gap between his brothers, and grits out, “Leave him alone you wanker!” His nerves cause his voice to break and become a little too high pitched for his own liking; the sight of Ireland drawing to a reluctant pause with his fist, but considering turning his aggression on Northern Ireland is one that brings out the toddler in him. “The fuck are you doing starting fights, anyway!” he adds, causing Irelands jaws to tighten and his eyes to turn icy and deadly.

Northern Ireland can only try and stop his whole body from trembling, and his fists tightening on reflex, because he suddenly feels Scotland’s eyes behind his back and it appears he might need to defend himself from both of his older brothers at the rate they’re going.

He glares at Ireland, whose expression grows harder before he takes a step back as if to distance himself and cool down.

“Are you okay, Scotland?” Northern Ireland asks when the murder leaves Ireland's face and he gets to work mopping up the spit that had coated his chin and rubbing at his neck and jaw, apparently injured in the struggle.

Northern Ireland can only wince at the sight of Scotland wiping at the blood on his face, smearing it further, leaving a macabre red stain under his nose and across his arm. His eyes gradually start to come back into focus, breathing slowing and body lurching back to the slightly slouched position it was in before as confusion looms across his face.

“I'm glad that's fucking over with,” Ireland says, earning a small admission from Scotland that he shouldn’t have gotten sidetracked, though he ignores Northern Ireland completely. Dizziness overtakes Scotland's expression slightly, and he leans back against the counter to keep steady.

“What on earth was all that about, _Irlande_?” France barks, his annoyance not disguised at all, and his body snapping forward to confront Ireland on the matter, arms folded and mouth pressed thin like he believes that Ireland's just really out to ruin his good time lately. “I wish you'd make your mind up about what you want.”

Northern Ireland doesn’t understand that, and doesn’t attempt to work it out because the slight shuddering in his muscles struggles to abate.

“I _want_ to get this meeting over and done with,” Ireland growls, like he despises France and everything he stands for, which makes France look wonderfully put out; almost offended.

Northern Ireland only finds himself capable of moving at all when he hears Scotland slide closer, his hand offered out towards Ireland and voice drifting from apologetic to hopeful as he asks, “No hard feelings, right, mate?", going against the usual script of Ireland and Scotland just carrying on like nothing happened at all or – at the very most – storming off in opposite directions to cool down.

Ireland doesn’t even respond right away, peering at the redhead like he’s some complete stranger, undeserving of an apology that really, Northern Ireland thinks, he should be the one making.

It’s only after a brief moment that Ireland eases his hand out, his face softening to its usual friendly state though he maintains a venomous look of suspicion right till the end; an unspoken promise of head butting Scotland and making his nose bleed from the other nostril too.

“Sure,” Ireland says, apparently incapable of maintaining his temper.

That’s when Scotland’s grip tightens, as though he might start to break fingers – which Northern Ireland feels Ireland truly deserves – but instead he pulls Ireland into the type of hug reserved for big blokes who live in fear that displays of affection towards other men might peg them as homosexuals. He even throws in a few pats to Ireland's back before letting go. The look of abject confusion on Ireland's face is almost hilarious, shoulders rolling and relaxing as the tension dribbles away from his body entirely.

Not that Northern Ireland pays very close attention at all. He’s not even remotely interested in getting any show of affection. Not even a pathetic man hug, he thinks, as his eyes wander to the floor, feeling his shoulders sag slightly at the apparent silent treatment he’s enduring. He really must have done something bad after all.

He barely even registers when Ireland's smile returns with vibrancy to his face, turning all the tension into something more palatable as he nudges Scotland playfully on the arm and says, “Come on, you big soppy bastard, you can make it up to me by carrying this tea out,” before lifting two of the mugs and pressing them into France and Northern Ireland's hands.

He adds a small, sharp pat to Northern Ireland's shoulder because to thank him verbally for essentially throwing himself to the lions is obviously beneath him, even a measly, 'Thanks for jumping in there, Sport'.

Typical.

Northern Ireland only lurches out of his funk when Scotland turns his smile towards him, hand easing out like he might offer something the same; a pat on the shoulder or a quick hug to assure him he did a good job.

What actually happens is that Scotland's hand plops down onto his head, ruffling up Northern Ireland's already out of shape curls and making Northern Ireland feel, for the second time, like Scotland’s actually just driven his fist into his skull for being pathetic and small and entirely too simpering. And Northern Ireland's entire body tenses with it until his brother's hand moves away.

He can only focus on the warmth of the tea in his hand, because he’s so confused that he’s feeling a little beside himself. Yet to display as such might actually get him a quick thump for being too soft or stupid.

“What on earth are you taking that for?” Frances asks suddenly and Northern Ireland is greeted by the sight of Ireland popping a tub of salt underarm before lifting the mugs of tea. Ireland looks thoughtfully scheming for a brief moment before yanking his smarm on again like a comfy pair of trousers.

“It’s a prop,” he says, only missing half a beat and causing France to look even more confused.

“A prop?” Northern Ireland asks, attempting to tease his hair back into shape, giving up almost right away and getting to work drinking his tea in hops that it’ll help him swallow the feelings of fear, confusion and disappointment that have settled hard in his chest and might otherwise turn into tears if left unchecked. “What the hell are you –”

“We’re practicing,” Ireland says, “for the mummers. Wales wrote this really insane script,” he adds, motioning to the salt and rolling his eyes gently to exaggerate how strange it seems to him as well.

It’s the sort of story Northern Ireland could believe too, because Wales has often written plays and musical pieces. But a seed of disbelief starts to take root in Northern Irelands mind.

For one thing, the whole family haven’t done a mummers play since men wore hats everywhere and it was acceptable to wear a suit all the time. For another, Wales has never cast any of his more creative work into the public eye (he once tried to talk Austria into some project or another, but got so badly rejected that he’d locked himself in his room for about three weeks, because apparently his magnum opus was a disgrace and so was he by connection).

England had only managed to talk him into coming out with a long running clarification that he _liked_ all of Wales’ other things, that he was sure Austria just had no taste and that he had a pot of delicious potato and leek soup in the kitchen that would go to waste.

It might have worked faster if Scotland hadn’t taken every opportunity to correct England on the fact that Wales’ music and poetry was watery, shit and lacking any inherent value whatsoever. That he was surprised Austria didn’t just kill himself upon hearing such tepid drivel.

Which had ceased any and all sharing Wales ever did as far as his writing was concerned, though Northern Ireland admits that perhaps scrawling over bits of it with crayon had been a bad choice on his part, but maintains that he was coerced into it and that he was just too small at the time to realise that not everyone can be cheered up with colourful squiggles.

“Mummers,” Northern Ireland pries, seeking clarification on the matter because he doesn’t believe a word of it. “You mean the stupid play?”

“Exactly.” Ireland chirps, frowning like he’s just been caught in something embarrassing. Which he has really, not that Northern Ireland believes it, because he happens to know that Scotland isn’t the type to start dressing up in overly elaborate costume as a Turkish knight or George the patron saint of England and retell the story of dragon slayers and spew out anything Wales might think to jot on paper. “You caught us out.”

“So, you beat each other up over a –” France starts off, sounding as incredulously disbelieving as Northern Ireland feels.

“Whatever you're cooking smells great by the way. Lovely,” Ireland says with a wide beaming smile that derails Frances complaint and results in a bashful blushing over a compliment he normally never gets. “Anyway, we should get going, Otherwise Wales will do that thing where he loses his temper and…” Ireland carries on, mugs in hand and taking off out of the room before anyone can question him further.

He’s followed by Scotland, who arcs around France as though he’s contagious or something, staring at the mugs of tea like they've committed some terrible wrong. He seems awkward about just lumbering out of the room, however, and pauses to make a statement that comes out of his mouth in random fragments. “I'll just be... You know... The play and so on,” he assures them before making a bid for freedom.

Northern Ireland’s damned if he’s swallowing such horse shit, and makes to storm out of the room and get to the bottom of all this once and for all, only to have France grab his T-shirt and give him a small tug, leading Northern Ireland to peer at him in confusion.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“I want to see what they’re doing in there,” Northern Ireland replies, because France is stupid and apparently cannot see the very obvious flaw with Ireland's explanation. More likely, however, he’s too full of himself from that little compliment and Ireland has set in motion further cooking.

The sly bastard!

“I think it’s best we leave them to it, don’t you think so?” France says, easing an arm around Northern Ireland's shoulders and tugging him into a hug that seems designed to coerce. Which it does, because France is warm and Northern Ireland had wanted somebody to give him a hug. “You were very brave, _du Nord_ ,” France adds, bolstering the teen's ego a little more before pressing a kiss to his forehead and releasing his grip. “Now go and get the mop; this floor looks like a torture chamber. Then you can help me prepare a starter.”

Northern Ireland casts his eyes to the blood, and frowns when France eases himself away, realising that what’s just happened is that he’s been tricked into manual labour. He pours out a breath, looking out to the corridor and wondering again just what his brothers are doing that they can’t even tell him.

His mind drifts towards the thought that they’re going to send him to some boarding school because they’re all tired of him as he wanders over to grab the mop and get to work.

So much for family.


	11. Chapter 11

  
**31st December, 2012; Edinburgh, Scotland; 2:30 pm**  
  
  
The thing about Ireland….  
  
Well, there are a great many things about Ireland, really, too many to easily enumerate, but the first one on that list, the greatest, most infuriating, most egregious one, will for ever be that she leaves. She always leaves.  
  
One of England's earliest memories is of her walking away, turning her back on them with their mother not yet cold in the ground – metaphorically speaking, of course; there was never a body, there was just a new length to Ireland and Scotland's limbs, a new bluntness to Wales' nose and England's fingers, and the corresponding knowledge that she was gone – leaving Scotland alone to a role he was ill-equipped to fill by either temperament or experience. It might not even _be_ England's memory in truth (Rheged's most likely, but England has his pain just as much as he has his eyes), yet the hurt lingers all the same.  
  
The second, inextricably linked, is of course that she always comes back eventually, albeit only on her terms and in her own time. Even during the years that they lived together, she would often disappear for days or weeks at a time without warning or giving any word of where she might be going, and then when she was at home, her presence seemed ephemeral, only to be found when she wanted to be found, and most of the time, she didn’t.  
  
And yet, each time – each and every bloody time – she reappeared, Scotland and Wales would fawn over her like she was a returning hero instead of the capricious deserter she time and again demonstrated herself to be, hanging off her every word as though each one contained some sort of insightful truth only she could tell.  
  
As Wales is doing now, cosied up to Ireland on Scotland’s tatty sofa, his head upturned towards her, a rapt expression his face as she tells Other-Scotland about how she felt there was something a little off with him as soon as she set foot in the house.  
  
Of course she's more sensitive to these things than the rest of them.  
  
And of course it’s to her that Other-Scotland chooses to hand the scraps of paper he’d been scrawling upon, because of course she's going to be the one full of salient advice and indispensable wisdom about this spell _none of them_ have every encountered before.  
  
England clamps his lips together to stop them from twisting into the sneer that feels more natural, and turns his head towards Northern Ireland, because he’s certain the view will prove somewhat less infuriating. North has always seemed immune to whatever strange spell it is that Ireland’s company casts over their brothers (and, apparently, anyone in the process wearing them like the world’s most unfashionable suit).  
       
Northern Ireland is sprawled sideways on the armchair which is the slightly more faded twin to the one England’s using, his long legs hooked over one of its arms, and his head pillowed on the other. He looks as grim and miserable as he has from the instant England dragged him, protesting, from his bed at five that morning, but is at least more interested messing around with his mobile than whatever precious pearls of wisdom might be dripping from Ireland’s lips.  
       
England’s lips purse even more tightly as he realises that Northern Ireland might well be so engrossed in his phone because he’s in communication with Iceland using it. He can’t even bear to think what sordid sort of texts they might be exchanging with one another, right there, under England’s nose, even though he’s made it perfectly clear that he doesn’t approve of the way Northern Ireland’s been conducting himself in regards to that boy.  
  
He’s of a good mind to confiscate the phone until Iceland’s safely returned home and distance renders it more difficult for him to act upon whatever inappropriate suggestions Northern Ireland might be making in his naivety, but Ireland’s voice stills him before he can finish pushing himself up from his seat.  
       
“I don't recognise these symbols here,” she says, pointing to something on one of Other-Scotland’s bits of paper. “What do they represent?”  
       
England sinks back down, his mouth relaxing into a smile,  heartened at this rare display of ignorance on Ireland’s part. ( _He_ hadn’t recognised anything Other-Scotland had drawn either, but had at least had the good sense to just look thoughtful and wait for Wales to ask about them instead.)  
       
Other-Scotland seems unperturbed by this admittance of incomprehension, however; apparently happy to explicate rather than turn to either England or Wales in the hopes that they might prove more knowledgeable. He may be correct not to bother, but the inherent presumption makes England’s teeth grit in irritation.  
  
“Those symbols represent the elements. Wales represents fire, Wind is England's rune,” Other-Scotland says, leaning closer to Ireland and pointing to something on the paper with one stubby finger. It loops anticlockwise as he continues: “Ireland is earth, and water’s my own.” England catches a glimpse of this last, angled to his view as the paper creases beneath Other-Scotland’s blunt prod; it looks a little like stylised waves. “Of course, I'm not sure they'll really work for you lot. They're personal runes, set in their places on the circle to create balance.”  
     
Ireland nods thoughtfully as though this is all very profound. “I'm not sure that they will, either. Our magic's not elemental. But...” Her brow furrows pensively. “If we make a second circle here –” she picks up a pen from the coffee table and writes something on Other-Scotland's paper – “with our names, and then link them to your families symbols on this one...”  
     
“We can make a connection between the two realities,” Wales chimes in, red-faced and eager, looking, to England's eye, a little like a dog begging for praise for having fetched Ireland's slippers or some such. “Then we can switch the two runes, and it should pull Scotland right back into his own body.”  
     
Ireland simply smiles at Wales, though England had half-expected her to pat him on the head in reward for his insight. “Exactly.”  
     
Even though it all makes sense, given that Scotland's spirit should be attracted to the resonance of his name, England feels compelled to interject at this point, because everyone looks far too enamoured with their own cleverness. “I thought using circles was 'an unnecessary complication', Ireland.”  
  
It’s a common observation of hers whenever England tried to embellish his own spells with something outside their normal - frankly quite unimaginative, albeit effective - approach to magic. Strange how easily things change when it’s her magic and not his in question.  
     
“We need a focus, and it might as well be circles as anything else,” Ireland says, effortlessly dismissing England without missing a beat, and not even bothering to do him the decency of looking at him as she does so. “At least we already know they work in this Scotland's world, anything else we try might not.”  
     
Of course she has an answer for that. She has a bloody answer for everything, ones that, infuriatingly, are never, 'I'm sorry, you were actually right all along, England!'.  
  
It’s pointless to remonstrate, however, with Wales presumably ready and primed to jump to Ireland’s defence at the smallest sign of disagreement on his part, and Other-Scotland doubtless swayed likewise even after less than an hour’s acquaintance.  
  
The most sensible course of action, therefore, is to take a leaf out of Wales’ book and steer the conversation elsewhere. “What about your Northern Ireland? What element is he?  
   
“Hmm?” Other-Scotland wrenches his attention from Ireland with what seems to be some difficulty. “Well, our boy doesn't...” A shiver of restless movement ripples across him – back bending back, weight shifting, and his fingers slowly bending and stretching as he curls his hands around the curve of his knees – as though his borrowed body is starting to feel like an uncomfortable fit and he’s trying to resettle it around himself.  
  
“He doesn't...have any magic,” he says, hoarse and quick; it sounds like a confession he feels is necessary but somewhat shameful to voice. (As well he might, England thinks, offering a smug smile towards his own Northern Ireland, who fails to look up from his mobile and acknowledge it.) “But if he did, he'd fall into the area between England and myself.” Other-Scotland snatches the pen and paper from Ireland and begins scribbling again. “Same goes for _Mannin_ , Cornwall and Brittany.”  
   
Wales’ breath catches sharply. “Your _Cernyw_ 's still around?” He glances sidelong at England. “Ours hasn't been for a long time...”  
   
England glares at his brother, not liking the accusation he can see in that look. It's hardly _his_ fault that things turned out the way they did; he didn't _choose_ consciously. Just like Wales didn't, in case he's forgotten. “We've not seen much of Dyfed or Powys, either, have we, Wales?” he says brusquely, as a reminder.  
  
Wales subsides, but Other-Scotland continues on, answering his question as though England had never even spoken (not unlike Scotland himself might have done in his place). “He is still around, though he keeps to himself; same as Isle of –” Other-Scotland looks slightly haunted, and his mouth and fingers go slack. The pen slides from his grip, falling tip first into his lap.  
  
 “Are you okay, _Yr Alban_?” Wales asks, sounding a little concerned.  
  
Other-Scotland blinks rapidly, and then looks away from Wales’ searching, anxious eyes. “I'm fine it's just…” He lifts up the pen again, and runs it in ever sharper circles over the paper, pressure increasing until it begins to tear through. “My brother used to be called Dyfed.”  
  
“Oh,” Wales says, skin blanching. “Well...” He tentatively reaches across Ireland to give Other-Scotland's knee a sympathetic squeeze. Other-Scotland looks down at the encroaching hand like it’s some sort of vile, many legged creature that’s just landed upon him, and by the strain evident on his face, it’s a struggle for him to keep from batting it away accordingly. “I'm sorry.”  
  
England rolls his eyes, because it’s so very typical of Wales; apologising for his own existence. Although Other-Scotland’s news does make him idly wonder who the England of Other-Scotland’s alternative universe might once have been, he’s not interested enough to ask and risk derailing things further.  
  
“This is all very touching, but hadn't we better get moving on this spell?” He’s not particularly eager to get their Scotland back, but everyone else will likely be insufferable if they delay much longer, especially the frog. And no-one wants that, especially England.  
  
“I agree with England,” Other-Scotland says, every word sounding grudgingly delivered, as he slides his knee away from Wales. “Is there anything else you need to know?” he asks Ireland.  
  
(Of course.)  
  
“Just your –” Ireland cuts herself off abruptly, and then frowns. “Shit.”  
   
From her expression, England deduces that she’s encountered some intractable flaw in her plan, and he inwardly – albeit slightly ashamedly – rejoices at this new sign of fallibility. “Problem?” he asks, hoping that said flaw will be one he will immediately recognise the solution for.  
  
If Ireland hears the eagerness in his tone, she doesn’t react to it, and there’s nothing but simple frustration evident in her own as she answers, “Well, I just hope the binding's going to be strong enough without Scotland's rune. If the bond's unequal, it might only be enough to send this Scotland home and not bring back our own.” She shrugs loosely, the sweep of her hair resettling itself into loose swags across her shoulders as they fall. “We could just use more of his names, I suppose; go for quantity over quality.”  
   
And therein lies the weakness inherent in all the spells they've ever tried to cast on one another over the centuries: they never stick because they're never tuned to their truest, oldest names, because none of them have ever trusted any of the others enough to share them. A necessary precaution, given the frequency with which they used to hurl curses at each other, but it does mean that their attempts to reverse the spells that have been cast on them have always fallen a little short.  
  
This could indeed be a problem.  
   
Wales shuffles around uneasily, the colour returning to face in uneven blotches across the tops of his cheekbones and tips of his ears. He keeps his eyes very firmly diverted from Ireland when he quietly says, “I know it. His rune.”  
   
“What?” The word is ripped from England’s throat without any intervention on the part of his brain; shocked and overloud as a consequence.  
   
Ireland, however, smirks in what looks to be a very knowing fashion. “Why am I not surprised?”  
   
“Iwerddon, please don't start this again...” The flush migrates further across Wales’ face, filling in the few remaining pale spaces, and he stares rigidly down at his lap.  
   
Ireland bursts into what sounds like delighted laughter.  
   
England glares at her and then Wales’ bowed head, feeling as though he's missing out on some private joke. Which would just be bloody typical, really. “How the hell did you find out?”  
  
And how long ago? How long has Wales been keeping this vital piece of information - this weapon - from him?  
   
“He taught me it,” Wales mumbles, and then louder and directed towards England. “Because you'd turned him into a kid and the spell hadn't worn off after a fucking week. I was getting a little desperate.” He looks pointedly at Ireland. “I'm sure he would have taught it you instead if you'd been there.”  
  
Ireland’s laughter dies down, although her smirk does not. “That's fair enough,” she says, “but either you've had an even better memory than he has all these years and never told us, or he didn't destroy it after you broke the spell.”  
   
Wales’ gaze falls away from her again. “Maybe he forgot...”  
   
“Sure he did.” Ireland gives one final chuckle, but afterwards both her tone and expression are nothing but business again. “We're going to need you to give us your names, all you've ever had, preferably, to work our part of the spell. We'll destroy it afterwards, make sure it doesn't get into the wrong hands,” she finishes, with a last sidelong look at the still blushing Wales.  
  
“I suppose…” Other-Scotland sounds dubious, but he takes the clean sheet of paper Ireland holds out to him all the same. “I share the name Dal Riada with Ireland,” he says conversationally as he begins to write. “We're twins.”  
  
Their Dal Riada had long ago gone the same way as Dyfed. England shares a questioning glace with Ireland and Wales, but by silent consensus they decide not to mention that fact to Other-Scotland. For his own part, at least, England suspects that it might come of somewhat of a blow to discover that technically speaking, you should be dead in the world you’re currently inhabiting.  
  
“We'll probably have to leave out that name, then. We don't want to accidentally yank your Ireland over here instead.” Ireland takes a quick peek towards Other-Scotland’s piece of paper when he stops writing, and her eyebrows shoot upwards in apparent surprise at whatever it is she sees there. “Is that all of them?” she asks, sounding slightly incredulous.  
  
“It's all I remember,” Other-Scotland says dismissively. “Our names aren't all that important.”  
  
England catches Ireland's eye and mouths “How many?  
  
Ireland holds up four fingers, and then shrugs, a little helplessly.  
  
England's eyes widen in surprise, because their accretion of names are just about the only thing they have which they can claim are truly their own. Through all the times they've changed and become more than they were before, that list of names only grew, all those they held before remaining intact even whilst other memories shifted – coalescing as their bodies did as with those of their kin who once carried them – forming an unbroken line which stretches all the way back to when they represented little more than a cluster of roundhouses, fields, and a sense of belonging; names which can only be spoken aloud because they pre-date the written word. It seems strange to think such things can be forgotten in this other world.  
  
But if they're not important, there _must_ be something else, something equally as binding to Other-Scotland's sense of self. A thought suddenly strikes him, a connection abruptly made, and he asks, “This symbol of yours” – he waggles fingers in vaguely wave-like fashion – “does it just represent your magic or _you_ as well?”  
  
Other-Scotland’s pen starts moving across the paper again, scratching furiously. “Well. Those symbols have changed and altered as we've grown up.” He shrugs. “So I suppose it represents us as much as our magic. Can't have one without the other and all that.”  
                       
England sighs. “I suppose we're going to have to use that in place of your name then, and hope for the best.” He exchanges a quick look with Ireland, who nods. “And you were saying we should construct these circles with salt. That will make the spell more efficacious?”  
                    
“It's what Ireland tells me.” He too turns his head towards Ireland, as though asking for confirmation even though he already knows she’s unqualified to give it. “Something about balance, life, the earth, sea. I'm afraid I didn’t really pay attention, I just always trusted in it.”  
  
England suspects the tight twist of Other-Scotland’s mouth and flare of his nostrils is suggestive of guilt, but as he’s so very rarely seen such an emotion reflected upon that face, he can’t be entirely sure.  
                   
“Well, that's...” Ireland’s words trail away uselessly, and she looks slightly pained. “It can't hurt to use it, anyway. “ She pats Other-Scotland's arm distractedly, and then glances towards Northern Ireland. “North, go and grab some salt.”  
                   
A tiny twitch at the corner of Northern Ireland’s lips – the most animation his face has shown for at least the past half hour – indicates that he's heard Ireland's request, but he doesn't seem inclined to move. Then, all of a sudden, his expression changes into something more eager looking, and he swings his feet down onto the floor.  
                   
England is immediately distrustful of this uncharacteristic enthusiasm, but the realisation that, by going to fetch salt, Northern Ireland will be in proximity to Iceland without proper supervision, is slow to dawn. Slow enough that Northern Ireland is halfway to the living room door before he comprehends it fully enough to make an attempt to stop him.  
  
“I'll get it; you stay here and...” A decent excuse for detaining him is even slower to materialise, so much so that England has to settle for an unconvincing one. “Practice your rune. You don't want to ruin the spell with sloppy penmanship, do you?”  
  
It certainly doesn’t stop Northern Ireland in his tracks, so England launches himself from his chair with the intention of interjecting himself bodily between his little brother and the door.  
  
That move does serve to make Northern Ireland pause for a moment, if only so he can ensure England has a better view of the exaggerated rolling of his eyes.  
  
“Oh, leave him alone, he can handle it,” Other-Scotland grumbles without even looking up from his paper. “Can't you, lad?”  
                 
Northern Ireland looks a little surprised by the support, not least, England suspects, because he’s so very unused to hearing anything of the like spoken in that voice. It appears to tie his tongue even tighter than usual, and for a moment, all he seems capable of offering Other-Scotland is a small, thankful smile. “Yeah, it might be a struggle, but I think I can just about manage to carry a tub of Saxa,” he says eventually, and the words have a slightly breathless quality, as though he’s finding it something of an effort to force out each one but is nevertheless determined to do so.  
                 
Wales also smiles at Other-Scotland, though his is far wider and more assured looking; grateful, no doubt, for an apparent ally where Northern Ireland is concerned. He opens his mouth to say something that England's certain will be entirely unhelpful to his position, so he quickly jumps in before his brother has chance to speak.  
                 
“I'm sure you can, but I think it's much more important that you concentrate on your rune.” England straightens himself up to his full height and draws back his shoulders in a bid to look more imposing, because he’s beginning to feel outnumbered where Northern Ireland is concerned; his control of the situation slipping away in slow increments. “You've never used it in a spell before so –”  
                 
 “I'm pretty sure I could write it in my sleep by now, seeing as how the bloody fae have insisted on drawing it on everything I fucking own for about the past _thirty years_ ,” Northern Ireland says with a derisive snort, clearly not at all fazed by England’s posturing, which, admittedly, had started losing its potency from the day Northern Ireland gained those all important couple of inches and began having to look _down_ at him when they spoke.  
  
“I'm sure he can be trusted,” Other-Scotland butts in presumptuously, as though he has every right to make such a bold statement about someone and something he knows absolutely nothing about. As though he’s fucking _family_ just by virtue of looking like one of its members.  
  
Before England can warn him to mind his place, however, Other-Scotland holds out his sheet of paper and says, “We'll need your expertise to finalise our design anyway. Wouldn't you say so, England?”  
  
England shuffles uncertainly, taking a tiny step towards the door and then back again, feeling very torn. On the one hand, there's Iceland with his _hands_ and the likelihood of North being defiled yet further by them, on the other, Other-Scotland does speak the truth of the matter.  
              
“What do you think?”  
  
Other-Scotland’s paper flutters enticingly. Beyond his conscious control, England’s hand twitches towards it slightly; after all, if this Scotland is anything like theirs in these matters, his design could well be riddled with enough slapdash mistakes that the resulting spell could rip reality in two.  
             
“Then again... My Wales is always a little better at these sorts of things.” Other-Scotland lowers his hand, which then starts to drift towards Wales.  
           
England’s knows that the end would just come _quicker_ if they relied on _Wales_ to do anything useful, and spurred by that fear, he automatically makes a grab for the paper.  
  
Other-Scotland’s grip is slow to loosen, but he does eventually – after one last narrow-eyed glare directed, bizarrely, over England’s shoulder – relinquish possession of the paper.  
  
The first thing England notices is not the spellwork – sloppy or otherwise – but a messy little sketch of a miserable-looking little figure, which judging by the monocle and top hat its wearing, he can only deduce is meant to be himself. “Well, I can see you've been hard at work.”  
  
It doesn’t bode well for everything else.  
  
Clearly, the spell needs close scrutiny by sharper minds, and England sits down on the arm of the sofa in order to peruse it more closely.  
  
Other-Scotland jostles him with a meaty arm as he swings it about in some gesture that England thinks is needlessly violent, given the force of the blow. “I'm sure your sister's done a fine job,” he says, his voice carrying a note of the firm confidence Ireland always seems to inspire in her abilities; regardless, apparently, of whether or not she’s actually demonstrated any.  
  
It makes England even more determined to find a flaw, no matter how small. His finger follows the curve of every line, the sharp angles of every rune, but encounters nothing but elegant yet functional simplicity of form, beautiful in its pragmatic efficiency.  
  
He presses the pad of his thumb to the gap left in the outermost circle which will bear his names, and it thrums with potentiality; a gathering power which raises the fine hairs on the back of his arm.  
  
There’s nothing, absolutely nothing, wrong. Not at all.  
  
(Of fucking, bloody, sodding course.)  
  
“How does it look?” Other-Scotland asks suddenly, leaning back in his seat, expression expectant. “Any problems?”  
   
The words catch in England’s throat like fish hooks and he almost retches on them. “Everything seems to be in order.” He clears his throat, and moves past that reluctant confession as quickly as possible, trying to draw as little attention to it as he can. “I should go and get that salt now, I suppose...  
  
“Oh, don't worry too much.” Other-Scotland grins good naturedly at Ireland. “You hear that, Ireland? England says you did a great job.”  
  
“I never said it was great!” England splutters, horrified by such words being put in his mouth. “Just that there doesn't seem to be any glaring errors.”  
  
“That sounds like a great job to me,” Ireland says, grinning back at Other-Scotland.  
  
“Practically the dictionary definition of one,” Wales adds, smiling at no-one in particular, but looking far too fucking smug for England’s liking all the same.  
  
“It means it's serviceable, not a work of fucking genius!” England says, quite wanting to punch each and every one of them in the face.  
    
Other-Scotland thrusting a clean sheet of paper and a pen under his nose distracts him sufficiently that he can keep himself from forming fists, which is probably a blessing, although it doesn’t particularly feel like one.  
  
“So… Can you do one better then?” Other-Scotland asks, wearing a thoroughly unpleasant smirk on his face.  
  
The desire remains, however.  
  
  
England knows he can’t. “There's no point in delaying matters,” he says, waving the offer away. “As I said, it's perfectly serviceable.”  
  
“If you say so.”  
  
“I do,” England says emphatically. “Surely you want to get home as soon as possible?”  
  
England certainly wants him to.  
                
“Nothing would please me more,” Other-Scotland drawls in a slow, ponderous monotone.  
  
England finds himself strangely annoyed by the answer even though he brought up the subject. It’s one thing for him to want to be rid of a completely unwelcome guest, but another thing entirely for that guest to actually want to leave, which suggests at the conclusion that their hospitality isn’t up to scratch. The ingratitude inherent in that presumed attitude grates on England’s nerves.  
  
“Good,” he snaps. “Well I'd best get that salt so we can get started then, hadn't I?”  
              
Other-Scotland ignores him, choosing instead to look towards Wales and Ireland with an incredulous expression on his face that just adds aggravation on top of irritation, given that England can’t even begin to fathom why he might be wearing it.  
             
Wales shrugs one shoulder at Other-Scotland, and then sighs. “Why don't I get that, _Lloegr_?”  
             
England narrows his eyes distrustfully at his brother. Of course Wales would like to do just that, wouldn't he, so he can...  
  
He truly can’t think of a single reason Wales would be so eager to volunteer himself for such a task until eventually a tiny glimmer of suspicion flickers across his mind – some neglected synapse at the very back of his brain making the sudden connection that the more conscious parts should likely have made long since – prompting him to look towards the armchair Northern Ireland was sitting on.  
  
It’s empty.  
  
He quickly scans the rest of the room, only to discover a distinct lack of his little brother throughout.  “Where's North?” he asks grimly.  
            
“Bathroom, maybe?” Other-Scotland says blithely.  
           
England snorts derisively, because it’s such a ridiculous notion that it doesn’t deserve even the small exertion of forming actual words to dismiss it. Given Northern Ireland’s reprehensible behaviour of late, there’s really only one place he could be.  
  
He starts to get up from his seat again, because Northern Ireland could have been gone for anything up to five minutes, and god only knows what unspeakable things could have happened in that time.  
           
Wales lunges forward and catches hold of England's sleeve before he can stand fully, trying to tug him back down. “I'm sure he doesn't need your help to navigate _Yr Alban_ 's house.”  
  
England roughly yanks arm free. “Don't try to be disingenuous, Wales, it doesn't suit you,” he says with a sneer. “That's not what I'm worried about, and you know it. After their behaviour in the car this morning –“           
           
Wales frowns at him. “He touched his knee, not his –“  
           
“I don't want to hear it,” England barks out, shocked that Wales would even _think_ of going _that_ far in his defence.  
          
Other-Scotland leans over towards Ireland, his eyes never leaving England and Wales. “Why are they having a lovers quarrel?” he asks in what passes for that body’s version of a whisper, which carries further than most people’s shouts.  
         
Ireland lets out an explosive snort of laughter. “Lover's quarrel? Those two?” She shakes her head, grinning. ”You've got the wrong brothers there.” Her expression then becomes slightly more serious, though not by any significant degree. She's clearly finding this whole situation pretty hilarious, but then she’s never given England’s concerns the consideration they deserve, so it comes as no surprise whatsoever. “England's just having some problems admitting that Northern Ireland's a big boy now.”  
         
“He is not a 'big boy', he is a _child_ ,” England snaps. “He doesn't know what's best for him, and clearer heads need to prevail.”  
  
And, to his disgust, it's becoming increasingly obvious that England's is the only clear head around.  
        
 “You know we have this problem too, it's why I take our North the odd week or two,” Other-Scotland says, directing his words towards Ireland, because, apparently, England might as well be fucking invisible right now as far as he’s concerned. “Keep an eye on things.”  
       
 One of Ireland’s eyebrows inches up a little way, and then she looks to England pointedly. “The odd week or two? Really? Our Scotland isn't allowed to have him stay for longer than a couple of days, is he, England?”  
       
England scowls back at her, equally pointedly. “If he was a little more responsible, then maybe he would be.”  
       
“I don't get him so drunk that he passes out, but you act exactly the same every time he's over at mine, too,” Wales cuts in, sounding slightly indignant.  
       
“You're no better than he is,” England says, turning his glower in Wales’ direction, furious that he has the unmitigated gall to pretend at wounded innocence. “In fact, I think you might be _worse_. I heard about your little trip to Boots, Wales.”  
       
Wales rolls his eyes. “I was being _responsible_ , _Lloegr_.”  
       
England would very much like to smack the superior look Wales is affecting right off his smug face, and he has to cross his arms tightly across his chest to help avoid giving into the temptation. “You were _encouraging_ him.”  
     
“Encouraging _him_ to be _responsible_ , for fuck's sake,” Wales says, his cheeks beginning to darken with an angry-looking flush.  
     
 “With someone who's far too old for him,” England counters.  
  
How Wales can’t see how simple this train of logic is beyond him. He can only think his brother is being wilfully obtuse.  
     
 “They look pretty much exactly the same age to me.”  
     
“In body, maybe, but not in anything else.”  
     
“ _Gogledd_ ’s grown up pretty fast compared to the rest of us.”  
     
  “He has,” England concedes grudgingly. “But –“  
   
The living room door swinging open so forcefully that it rebounds off the wall with a resounding thump, interrupting England before he can finish making the rebuttal Wales so richly deserves, and Northern Ireland stomps into the room carrying a gargantuan tub of salt that Scotland doubtless got on offer from somewhere or other.  
  
“I’ve got the salt,” he says, “something I managed to accomplish with my virtue intact.”  
  
The latter embellishment rather suggests that England’s attempts to scrutinise him for signs of rumpled clothing or hair aren’t quite as surreptitious as he had hoped, and he feels a little shamed right up until the moment Northern Ireland flippantly adds, “Well, except for France groping my arse, anyway.”  
   
England’s mind immediately empties of everything save rage, and he surges upright, fists clenched. “That fucking bastard, I'll –“  
   
Wales launches himself at England again, grabbing hold of his shoulders and leaning all of his weight against him. His grip is surprisingly strong; so much so that even though England struggles, he can’t seem to break it. “Jesus Christ, calm down, _Lloegr_. He's only joking. Right, _Gogledd_?  
   
Northern Ireland’s only response is a small, noncommittal shrug.  
  
England will castrate the perverted fucking wanker with nothing but his bare hands as he should have done centuries ago. He’ll –  
  
“Well, he looks unmolested to me,” Other-Scotland says.  “Does that mean we can start the spell now?”  
  
He sounds utterly unconcerned, probably because he seems to have the same ridiculous fondness for France that their own Scotland has and therefore liable to be entirely unable to see France as the despicable worm he is; one who is fully capable of perpetrating all manner of disgusting indignities upon unsuspecting young nations like Northern Ireland.  
  
“You would say that, wouldn’t you,” England growls. “Always the first to leap to his defence, even though –“  
  
“Fine, I was joking,” Northern Ireland says suddenly, the blank façade of his expression cracking. “There wasn't any groping. From _anyone_.”  
  
England’s heart slows so abruptly from the fierce, agitated rhythm it had been battering against his chest that he feels a little dizzy. Before he can use his newfound calm to issue any much needed reprimands for Northern Ireland’s deceit, his little brother’s gaze flicks quickly to Other-Scotland, and he asks him, “You don't need anything else now, right?”  
  
“That should be everything, Lad,” Other-Scotland replies so quickly that England is almost tempted to believe that they had planned the exchange between them beforehand to serve as a distraction if it were needed.  
  
Other-Scotland then heaves his bulk up out of his seat and then strides across the room to lay one of his unwieldy paws on Northern Ireland’s shoulder.  
  
Northern Ireland stares at the hand, and then at the rest of Scotland, his entire body stiffening as though the touch has paralysed him. Eventually, he manages to stammer out a weak, “Okay,” followed by a more impulsive-sounding, “Thanks.”  
  
“Good lad.” Other-Scotland pats Northern Ireland’s shoulder and offers him a small, beatific looking smile. It looks distinctly peculiar on his face, resting there awkwardly for a moment before flitting away again. The attention he then turns on England is appreciably colder by several degrees, and his voice is gruff as he says, “So, shall we get to work, then?”


End file.
